


Lockdown

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: NCIS
Genre: Attempted Murder, Big Bang Challenge, Gen, Hunted, Hurt/Comfort, Team, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing <i>standard</i> about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

  


It was times like these when Tim wished for a dead body.

Not that he was morbid or "ooh, dead body" or splatter-happy like Abby, but it would beat sitting in front of his computer watching the display of colored cubes rearrange themselves during defrag. Again.

He hated testifying

"Keep sighing like that, Probie," Tony muttered to his left, "and you'll bore yourself into a coma." He sat back in his chair with his feet on his desk, eyes closed.

Tim stopped sighing—not because Tony told him to, but because Gibbs really could show up any minute. His testimony to the grand jury had just finished. Judging by the abrupt call Tony got a few minutes before, it had gone well enough. But it also left Gibbs without anything to do but wait until the grand jury returned an indictment. Or not. Lawyers and chicanery annoy Gibbs. And too much free time riles Gibbs up even more. It was a weird sort of inverse relationship: the less they have to do, the more irate Gibbs gets.

"You know, you shouldn't have made Ziva get the coffee," Tim murmured half-heartedly, because he did want his half-caf latte with whip and the mocha chip muffin he promised to split with her. It was a reward for his daily jog up the stairwell. Too bad he missed the "Wet Paint" sign this morning. "She might forget your order."

"I didn't make her go," Tony pointed out. He folded his arms behind his head. Downtime never seemed to bother Tony. "Ziva _volunteered_."

"Only because you kept bugging her," Tim reminded Tony. Tim absently rubbed at the gray paint on his thumb. "She went because she was sick and tired of you asking her how to spell—" Tim's eyes widened. "Wait a minute. Your spelling isn't _that_ bad."

Tony frowned. Whether it was because of Tim's comment on his spelling or because he had been found out, Tim wasn't sure. Knowing Tony, it was probably both.

"You want Gibbs to come back to find no coffee waiting?" Tony challenged.

Tim winced. Tony did have a point.

"Maybe we should go over our testimonies again?" Tim suggested lamely.

"If I go over mine one more time, I can start making limericks out of it."

Tim snorted. "That should go over well with Judge Reinfeld."

"I could bronze my testimony and have Hedy Lamarr hand deliver it to the old guy and it _still_ wouldn't go well with him." Tony narrowed his eyes at Tim's blank look. " _Boom Town_? _Crossroads_? _My Favorite Spy_?" He rolled his eyes. "She was the 1940's version of Angelina Jolie."

"You watch too many movies," Tim grumbled as he surreptitiously typed out "Lamarr" on Google. He blinked at the images that popped up. Wow.

"No, I watch the right ones," Tony returned, "not every blockbuster or pointy-eared epic that comes out qualifies as a classic, McGeek."

Tim retorted without thinking, "So says Professor DiNardo." He grimaced the moment the words left his mouth. "Tony, that was…I didn't mean to—"

"You gotta admit," Tony said in an overly bright voice that made Tim unable to meet his eyes, "all that trivia made me a pretty convincing professor."

"Yeah," Tim laughed awkwardly. He glanced over at Tony, who was now staring dully at his computer. Tim took a deep breath. "Tony. I—"

"You think if I call Ziva, she could get me one of those muffins?"

Tim blinked. "Uh…" He stared at the stiff shoulders. His stomach did a flip flop that left a knot inside him. "Probably not." Tim took a deep breath before falteringly adding, "I think right now she's probably debating how to screw up your order."

The strained laugh was a relief to hear. Kind of.

Tim started picking at the dried paint on his hand again. He wondered if Abby had turpentine. If not, she could probably make some.

"I'll split my muffin with you?" Tim offered hesitantly.

"And get McCooties?" Tony scoffed. "No thanks." He swiveled around to look at Tim, his mouth quirked into a crooked smile. "I'll just get a candy bar at the vending machines later."

Facing his computer again, Tim gnawed on his lower lip. "Lieutenant Vista's court martial took only three days to convict him for Commander Ford's murder," he commented awkwardly because the silence between them had stretched for too long. "We've had to wait _weeks_ before we finally got a grand jury for Jose Brinon."

"Civilian contractor," Tony grunted, making the words sound dirty.

Considering all the evidence they were able to decode so far from Ford's laptop, Tim thought the generalization was fairly accurate. Tech was still deciphering gigabytes of encrypted data.

Every phone in the bullpen was ringing save theirs. Testimony time, especially for a case of this caliber, had exempted them from Dispatch's call list for the past two weeks. The FBI had wanted to take over the case once Brinon Industries had been linked to Ford's death but, of course, NCIS (mostly Gibbs) hadn't been interested in sharing.

Tim eyed Tony's monitor and the new racing game Tony had installed. He was tempted, but with his luck, Gibbs would catch him in the act.

"Think our testimonies tomorrow will stick?" Tim asked. It was lame, but it was better than staring at nothing in particular and failing to look busy.

Shrugging, Tony sat slouched in his seat, idly running his cursor around the screen, trying to select a car for his game.

"Physical evidence would stick better," Tony said finally. He decided on a red mustang. He nodded toward the stack of folders at the center of his desk—the ones he'd been bent over well before Tim got in from his sprint up the stairs. "Defense may be good enough to dismantle what we have to say if we eventually go to trial, but physical evidence?" Tony scowled. "If the cyber-geeks could have gotten the rest of Ford's computer cracked, we could've submitted it, too."

"We still could," Tim reminded him. "At the trial."

" _If_ there is a trial. You never know with grand juries. And that defense lawyer is like David Copperfield," Tony grunted. "What _are_ those guys doing down there?"

Tim bit his tongue. Several weeks ago, he had been one of those cyber-geeks and Tony had been an agent afloat. It was too recent for him to divorce himself completely from Cyber Crimes, yet a part of him grumbled as well. The encryption couldn't be that hard to crack.

A few minutes later, boredom finally drove Tim to open his notepad software to draft out a scene for his next novel. His publisher has been leaving messages on his voicemail, asking for the next chapter and he was still stuck on the first paragraph.

When he heard the rattle of a mop bucket bouncing empty in a cart, Tim cringed.

"Agent Tony!" Thankfully, Albert's usual haltering greeting stopped in front of Tony's desk. The slimly built janitor nodded in his direction.

Tim mumbled a "Morning" and ducked his head lower and tried to look preoccupied.

"Hey, Al," Tony returned easily. He never seemed to mind Albert. "Didn't see you last week. Vacation?"

"No, no." Albert laughed awkwardly. He coughed. "Ornella was sick. Stayed home with her."

"Ouch. Your sister feeling better?"

"Better. _Gracias_." Albert rubbed his arms up and down as if he was cold and scratched his wrists.

Tim frowned mildly. From his desk, he could see Albert was sweating. He must have caught whatever his little sister had. Time to break out the folic acid.

Albert checked his watch. "You are early, no?"

"Court case," Tony grumbled. "Always fun."

Tim could hear the artificial rev of a car veering around a tight corner. He rolled his eyes when there was a tiny, mechanical screech of brakes.

"Say, nice, Albert. Is that new?"

In spite of himself, Tim peered over his monitor and caught Tony gesturing toward a white object clipped to the janitor's belt. iPod. Old gen. Huh. Albert could probably sell it to a collector.

"Sister's." Albert shifted from foot to foot, his gloved fingers rubbing across the top edge of the device. He glanced over to Tim, who ducked his head again. Last time, Albert stuck around for thirty minutes grilling him about buying a computer for his little sister.

"Ornella wants new. Gave me her old one."

"Yeah, new ones play movies now, you know."

Albert made another sound like a cough. "What they pay me? No."

Tim grimaced from behind the screen. He studied the last sentence he typed with a frown. Hm, that didn't look right.

"Uh...Agent Tony?" Albert's cart squeaked as it rolled back a bit. "You were _policía_ before, _sí_?"

There Albert goes again. Tim remembered Ziva's polite smile frozen on her face as she once tried to explain why, though she wasn't a US citizen, she could still work for NCIS. Albert said it was for some citizenship course he was attending. He had been grilling everyone the past few days. Ziva was now elsewhere whenever Albert rolled by; some of the other agents as well.

Tony's one fingered typing and the tinny sounds of a motor revving eased. "I was. Everything okay, Albert?"

" _Sí_ , no, I mean…" Albert's shoes creaked. He exhaled. "I have a question."

"Question?"

Tim highlighted the word "said" in the sentence. His left index finger tapped on his desk. "Spoke"? "Exclaimed"? Maybe "sighed"?

"Ah…a police question."

"Sure." Tony's chair creaked as he swung his feet off the desk. "What's up?"

"How do I...I need to report a...I need to report someone's murder."

Tim paused, his fingers poised over his keyboard.

"Oh?" Tony's voice sharpened and, out of the corner of Tim's eye, he spied Tony straightening in his chair. "Who?"

"Yours."

Tim's head whipped up in time to see something black in Albert's hand. He froze, his eyes wide with shock and there was a moment—the longest he had ever felt—before Tim could recover and leap to his feet, shouting.

The flash that bloomed out from Albert's hand still came as a shock.

"Low see in o…"

Tim choked, outraged as he watched Tony jerk and fall out of his chair without a sound. Then there was another shot. Tony thrashed, disappeared under his desk.

It happened in a matter of seconds. _Less_.

"Gun!" someone shouted. At that moment, something exploded in the far corner. Then another by Pacci's old desk. Paper scattered with smoke and sparks.

There was a sudden rush of sound and smoke and heat, everything snapping back into real time since that moment when Albert had first fired.

The smell of charged gunpowder, burnt paper and blood filled Tim's nostrils. His mind flailed—briefly like a swimmer caught in a riptide—before he rallied, his body moving faster than his mind could instruct it.

Tim yanked his drawer out to grab his service weapon. Albert's pale face turns his way. A bullet pinged the file cabinet by his head. His chair spun and broke into two pieces when Tim threw himself to the ground.

Someone fired. An overhead light exploded. He could hear running.

"Stay down! Stay down!"

"Lower your—"

Another bullet flew past him and made a ripping sound in the screen behind him. A shot from another direction pierced the plasma screen and it toppled, shattering between the desks.

"Put your gun do—!"

There was a sharp report of a gun. Another spat back. Two shots from behind his cubicle. One beyond it. One above him.

"Hands in the air! _Hands_!"

"Everyone down!"

The shots seemed to be coming from all directions. The stench of burnt gunpowder was overwhelming in the air.

One, two, three. In rapid session, gunfire threw the bullpen into further chaos. It sounded like it held a lot more people than it ever had.

But all Tim had eyes for was Tony—his head under his desk, his arms pinned under his body, his backup still holstered and strapped to his ankle.

Tim grunted as he accidentally slammed his hand on the underside of his drawer. Still watching Tony, Tim stayed crouched by his desk as he yanked the drawer hard enough to come completely off of its rails and spill its contents on the floor in front of him.

Shoving away the bits that had collected on the bottom of the drawer, Tim grabbed his weapon. He yanked it out of the holster and emerged from behind his desk, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.

Albert was right there.

"Put your gun down!" Tim gasped. He couldn't gather enough breath to make it sound demanding, an order to be obeyed.

Albert startled and swung his gun toward him. The janitor's face was bone white, his brown eyes huge and his mouth gaping. Was he high? Was that it? It looked like Albert was trying to say something when he was interrupted by a black canister rolling over and hitting Tim's desk. Albert glanced down at it and jumped back.

Tim twisted from his desk and threw himself over Tony's prone body.

"Grenade!" he shouted before he heard a deep-echoed boom. Someone screamed. Tim felt a hard push that forced him to the ground, crushing Tony underneath him.

Everything went blinding white then completely dark.

* * * * *

He needed coffee, damn it.

Gibbs had drove directly from the courthouse, bypassed his usual liquid breakfast and drove straight to the Navy Yard.

Years in uniform had honed the habit to greet when greeted no matter what mood he was in. So Gibbs nodded, grunted toward the meek _hellos_ floated his way as he stormed through Security, retrieved his weapon and his badge from the bins and zeroed in on the elevators with all the accuracy of a sniper. He waited, eyeing the stairways as the indicators stayed frozen on one floor for a few minutes. He was tempted to go up Exit A next to the elevator but the "Maintenance" sign and the heavy smell of paint warded him off. So instead, he silently fumed at the doors stupid enough to stay closed.

When the car finally arrived at ground level, Gibbs found he was the only one entering. The doors closed in the compartment with agents still waiting out in the hall. No one got on the elevator with him. Which was fine with him.

Gibbs said nothing as he jabbed a finger to his floor. He stared ahead of him, not at the numbers. Gibbs rocked on his heels slowly to calm the thrumming in his gut. He glowered at the double doors, waiting for the eventual _ding_ when he heard something else: two short barks, muffled above him. Gibbs slammed his back into the elevator wall, his weapon out against his right shoulder.

Gunshots.

The elevator shivered as it continued to climb and Gibbs heard five more, from several directions now. Then muffled thunder that was both alien and damningly familiar. He smelled smoke.

 _Ding_.

The elevator stopped.

Gibbs pressed against the side as the doors lazily opened. He punched down the emergency stop, stalling the car from going further, blocking it from being an escape route. Immediately, his eyes watered as fumes wafted into the elevator. He could hear shouting outside. Feet pounded past him. He grimaced at the taste of ash and fire in his mouth.

"Gibbs! Elevator!" he shouted, giving his position. "How many?"

Someone called out _one_. Another stammered out _two_. He heard someone throwing up in the back.

"Are we clear?" There was no more gunfire and Gibbs could see what looked like a grenade in the center of the carpet, smoke belching out of its top.

A trembling voice called out in return. "Carter! By stairs! Clear!"

"Gands, exit A! Clear!" another sputtered.

"Trinston, exit C! Clear!"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes as several other agents called out, barely audible as they coughed huddled under desks. There were fire alarms screeching in the background. Gibbs could see thin black plumes scattered throughout the bullpen. He could also see two distinctive columns of smoke spewing out from the center of the bullpen. His desk.

"I have one down!"

"Fire's out!"

"We need some assistance here!"

"Anyone with the director?" Gibbs shouted as he edged closer to the elevator opening.

"Director's secure!"

Gibbs crouched low and peered around the edge, his foot toeing the threshold. "McGee! David! DiNozzo!"

" _Boss_!"

McGee's voice rang out within the haze already clearing. Gibbs pointed his gun into the fog, memory not sight guiding him toward the desks. When he could make out the clear profile of Tony's desk, he finished the rest of the distance at a run. He whipped his weapon to his left, to his right and then rolled the smoke bombs away with his foot.

"What happened?" Gibbs demanded even as he veered around the upturned contents he recognized were from DiNozzo's desk. He dropped to his knees to press a hand over a wound on Tony's right shoulder. McGee looked up with a bruised jaw and a cut forehead, relief in his eyes. He had both hands clamped over a bloody patch on Tony's abdomen.

"It was Albert," McGee gritted out as he blinked teary eyes, trying to see.

"Who?" Gibbs demanded as he pressed down harder. Tony grunted. The small pool of blood under him spread. Gibbs's slacks clung to his knees now. He slipped a hand under Tony's shoulder and hissed. It was a through and through. Gibbs looked up as agents gathered.

Agent Trinston jogged up to the crowd, panting. His pale, round face was splotched red with anger when he caught the tail end of what McGee said. He started. "Albert? The—"

"Janitor," one of the agents spat out as he staggered over. "He just started shooting."

"He shot Tony," McGee blurted out. He flinched when Tony made a small sound, feebly fidgeting as if to push hands away. "Sorry," McGee muttered, more to himself before he nodded toward the desk. "Albert stood right there and..." McGee clenched his jaw. "Then there was an explosion. No, two, I think."

"Wastebaskets blew," another confirmed as he coughed into his fist. "More flash bang than bomb. Must have planted them during his rounds."

"Think he threw out something too. Couple of them in fact," Trinston added. The agent cupped his left ear and grimaced.

"It looked like a grenade," McGee supplied. He blinked at his surroundings, at Tony's desk with a dazed look.

"Smoke bombs." Otherwise he would have come back to bodies instead. "Covered his escape," Gibbs muttered. From Trinston and McGee's faces, maybe a stun grenade was thrown as well. "Anyone else get hit?" He spared the others a glance.

Agent Fritz rose to his feet from his position by Gibbs's desk. He gestured to the floor with his gun. His narrow, tanned face screwed up into a scowl. "Hanks is dead."

"Couple of minor cuts and burns," Trinston reported after he scanned the area. "Crest was too close to one of the explosions."

Gibbs glowered up at the agents surrounding them and felt something hot curling in his gut. Why were they all standing there? "Do we have him?"

The negative head shakes made him want to hit something.

"Check the exits—"

"We blocked all the exits as soon as the first shot was fired. Gands, Trip and Carter are still guarding them. No way Albert—" Trinston began.

"Check them again!" a voice boomed from above. Everyone looked up at Vance, his hands curled over the railing as he stood on the landing, three of his security detail huddled around him. "He couldn't have gotten off this floor without the stairs."

"Sir," Gands called out from his position, "I've been maintaining A. No one has come through here!"

"I'll help Trip secure C!" Fritz volunteered. He gave Gibbs a curt nod before jogging off.

"Search from top to bottom. Gands, partner up with Marks on A." Vance gave the bullpen a quick scan as the others split up. "What's the count?"

"Agent Hanks is dead!" someone reported. "Four others with minor injuries. Johnston was grazed. Crest has first degree burns."

"DiNozzo's down," Gibbs added tightly. "Two bullets: one to the shoulder, other in the abdomen."

Vance slapped a hand on the rail. "Do we have confirmation on the shooter?" he demanded.

"Son of a bitch said good morning to me minutes before," Trinston confirmed. "It was definitely Albert."

Gibbs ground his teeth as he shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it under Tony's lower back. He kept his hands clamped over the matching wound in front.

Vance gave his guards an annoyed look as they shuffled closer around him when he tried to take a step down. "Gibbs, already called the paramedics. ETA's five minutes. Move all injured personnel to the elevators. Everyone else follow procedure: move to the holding area. And shut those damn alarms off! I want—"

Suddenly, all the lights went out.

Then the monitors blinked out.

Phones abruptly silenced. The klaxons muted. A hum heralded the red glow of backup generators powering up emergency lights.

The agents surrounding Vance tensed, their guns in hand and ready. Agents on the bullpen stood up in alarm.

"What the hell?" Gibbs glanced down and caught a sliver of hazel dulling into a dark green looking up at him. He slipped a hand over a cooling neck and squeezed.

Tony's lips parted but all that came out was a low groan.

"We went into lockdown!" Vance stared at the electronic ticker screen on the wall. He leaned on the rail like he was going to vault over it.

Gibbs could see the red "LOCKDOWN. LEVEL FOUR. SECURE POSITIONS." scrolling across the strip.

"Level Four? That's for bio-weapon response," McGee exclaimed even as he knelt to exert more pressure on Tony's wound. His eyes were wide when they darted over to Gibbs. "But that means—"

"No one can get in or get out," Gibbs finished.

"Who authorized this?" Vance snapped at the closest agent, who grabbed his radio. Even from where Gibbs stood, he could see they were having trouble getting through. "Check with MTAC!"

"MTAC's offline!" An agent ran back to Vance. "I could hear them inside, but the power's down. They're locked in."

"Backup power for it should be kicking in," Vance checked around the bullpen. "Someone get me through to security."

Gibbs could hear everyone around him trying the phones, their cells, their radios. He didn't remove his hands from stemming the blood flow. McGee flicked a worried look their way but he, too, remained where he was.

After a few moments, Vance's face hardened as an agent raced up the steps and leaned into his ear. Vance nodded to his security detail. "Find a way into MTAC," he ordered. "Get our people out of there."

"Someone called in the lockdown codes," Vance announced to the rest of the agents.

"Who?" McGee said as he stared up at Vance.

Vance's eyes moved to Gibbs. "Special Agent DiNozzo."

  



	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing _standard_ about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.

Ducky was in the middle of dissecting the frontal region of John Doe's left lung, when the lights went out.

"Uh...Doctor?"

Ducky glanced up and studied the ceiling through his faceguard. A second later, the generators for the morgue's cold storage activated and the lights returned, albeit subdued. The automatic doors sighed as the locks engaged. The sliding door by the drawers locked with a quiet _click_.

Oh dear. Not good at all.

At least this body he'd been working on was most certainly dead. No European sociopath lurking in a body bag, using it like a macabre Trojan Horse. Hm, he should give Gerald a ring; see how the lad was doing in his new employment.

"Blackout?" young Jimmy Palmer suggested. He eyed the lights and shifted from foot to foot. He held his clipboard to his chest.

"Mr. Palmer," Ducky said carefully as he peeled off his gloves finger by finger, "in the locker by my desk, there are a set of golf clubs. Would you be so kind as to fetch me the nine iron?"

"G-golf clubs?" Mr. Palmer looked past his shoulder to his desk. "Nine iron?"

"Yes, I have it in good authority that the nine iron makes a formidable weapon."

Mr. Palmer's eyes rounded behind his glasses and he went pale. "W-weapon?" He checks the lights again and swallowed.

Ducky's mouth crinkled. It wasn't Mr. Palmer's fault that there was a predilection for violence in this building. But they couldn't afford to dilly dally either. Best not let the lad think about it too much.

"Mr. Palmer?" Ducky prodded gently. "My nine iron?"

Flustered, Jimmy Palmer stammered an apology while he hurried over to his desk, only hesitating once more when Ducky told him to take a club as well, preferably not his wedge as it was his favorite.

Ducky watched with a furrowed brow when he realized Mr. Palmer had selected only a putter for himself, tucked under his arm while holding up the nine with two hands as if it were Excalibur itself. Ducky accepted it, giving him a curt nod. Before he could chide Mr. Palmer's choice, he heard the distant clamor of footsteps arriving at Autopsy. He gestured wordlessly to his assistant to stand by the side of the main doors. He positioned himself on the other side.

Mr. Palmer gaped when Ducky held his club high above his head, but falteringly mirrored him. The young man gulped as a shadow crossed the glass window of their entrance.

It was reminiscent of a case in Lougheed and a woman who favored too much rouge. Ducky gave himself a mental head shake before he could think back to why he had been lurking in the closet, dressed only in his shorts, waiting to knock her husband out with a cricket bat. He set his mouth and raised his club higher when a blade slipped between the doors, twisted and pried the panels open. He readied, aimed and blinked.

Oh.

* * * * *

Jimmy could feel sweat trickling down his neck from under his surgical cap, his scrubs sticking to his shoulders as he stood by the doors. He suddenly wished he wasn't so tall, making such a big target. It struck him how thin and useless the golf club felt. He gulped. Maybe they should turn off the lights completely? Block the doors? With what? The normally automatic doors had no handles. Desk? Cabinet? X-ray machine?

Too bad they didn't carry guns like the agents. Man, a gun would be really useful right now, not that he knew how to use one, but Dr. Mallard probably did. Then again, they weren't agents and—

Jimmy froze when he heard the footsteps. He saw the doctor tense and knew, whatever this was, it was happening _now_. He curled his fists tighter on the club's grip, squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in his stomach and swung down hard just as the doors were forced open. He heard Dr. Mallard's hissed warning and Jimmy's eyes flew open just as the putter zoomed toward a skull.

A hand caught it by its head and the sudden stop vibrated down his arms. Jimmy gaped at Gibbs's stony impression as he held the club inches from his shoulder.

"It...it wasn't the nine iron," Jimmy blurted out.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he let go of the club, folded his knife and twisted back around to—

"Tony!" Jimmy exclaimed.

Tim was holding up Tony by an arm around his middle, Tony's left arm slung across Gibbs's shoulders.

"This table," Dr. Mallard directed in a brisk voice, already passing Jimmy his club as he pointed the newcomers toward the closest empty metal slab, two spots down from John Doe.

Jimmy stared at the bloody area marking Tony's shoulder blade and his lower back. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Hanks is dead," Tim wheezed as he and Gibbs walked Tony over. "Some minor stuff from the explosions—"

"Explosions?" Jimmy stammered. He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mr. Palmer, my bag," Dr. Mallard called out sharply. "Be sure to remove your smock. It's contaminated." Jimmy scrambled to his desk and grabbed the black medical bag out of his bottom drawer while Dr. Mallard changed out of his stained smock and tossed it with his gloves into the bio-containment disposal bin.

Tim shot Jimmy an apologetic look. "Yeah, a couple of explosives went off, but mostly to make a lot of noise. No one was badly hurt. They're being treated in the holding area with first aid. But Tony--"

"What happened exactly?" the ME asked as he waved toward the cool surface. He shot Jimmy an annoyed look. Jimmy flushed and began to struggle out of his smock and gloves as well. He was acutely aware of how much of John Doe's blood covered him.

"Careful now…"

Tony made a strangled noise when they eased him onto the table. His legs clumsily knocked against the side and he writhed.

Tim hissed. Gibbs's face grew stormy.

In the midst of it all, Doctor Mallard's voice was soothing as he held Tony's head to keep him still. "All right. All right. We won't do that again. Sorry…"

"Albert shot him," Tim grated out.

Gibbs lifted and settled Tony's legs on the slab. Tony grunted as they carefully straightened his upper body onto the table.

" _Albert_?" Dr. Mallard repeated. His hands stilled over the wound on Tony's right shoulder. "He did this? Why on earth...? Is he still out there?" He eyed the gaping double doors even as he opened his medical bag. "Perhaps we should move him to the garage so the paramedics can safely—"

"There's not going to be any paramedics, Duck," Gibbs interrupted. His jaw clenched as he slowly unknotted Tony's tie. Tony mumbled something and his right hand came up an inch before Gibbs patted it down.

"The entire complex is in lockdown," Tim explained tersely as he watched Dr. Mallard slipped on his stethoscope and tucked the bell under Tony's stained shirt. Tim swallowed and averted his eyes.

"Surely we can get an override. Security can accompany—"

"Level Four," Gibbs cut in.

Dr. Mallard looked up, his eyes wider, the stethoscope poised over Tony's lungs. "Level _Four_?" the ME echoed, his voice higher.

"W-what's Level Four?" Jimmy stuttered, but no one looked his way.

"Contagion?" Dr. Mallard demanded and a chill rippled down Jimmy's neck. Another plague?

"None," Tim reported as he rocked from foot to foot; he was trying not to look like he was staring at the doors.

"False lockdown," Gibbs added. He scowled.

"Security reported Tony called it in," Tim explained.

"When?"

Tim turned away from the doors. His face twisted. "After he was shot."

Dr. Mallard frowned down at Tony. He gestured to Jimmy for his pressure cuff.

"I highly doubt," Dr. Mallard murmured as he proceeded to wrap Tony's upper arm with the cuff, "that Tony had the fortitude to call in such an extreme measure." The zip of Velcro was loud in Autopsy as the band snaked around Tony's elbow. He exhaled sharply as he released the value and considered the numbers.

Jimmy made a face as well.

Gibbs' mouth pursed at Jimmy's expression. "The call was faked but it did the job."

Suddenly, Tony groaned. His head lolled to the side, but he said nothing else.

Tim's eyes shrank to slits, again staring hard at the doors. "No outside lines, no main power, no way in, no way out..."

"And no paramedics," Dr. Mallard concluded with a furrowed brow.

"You're it, Duck."

"Jethro, this is the morgue. Not a particular vote of confidence for Anthony." Dr. Mallard gingerly pressed his fingers first on the wound on Tony's shoulder, then the one on his abdomen.

"You're our only medical doctor." Gibbs's gaze fixed on Ducky.

Giving a nod of surrender, the elderly ME settled a hand under Tony's jaw to check a pulse. "Hm, understandably fast." He heaved a sigh. "Yes, well…Mr. Palmer, I think we need a closer look at the abdomen area."

"Closer look?" Jimmy stammered and he shot the medical bag a look—it looked woefully small. His tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Fortunately," the ME said as he pulled off his helmet and set the headgear on the next table, "there seem to be exit wounds. Was the shooter close?"

It was Tim who answered, in such a clipped voice Jimmy had to check to make sure it wasn't Gibbs talking.

"He was close." Tim swallowed and lifted bleak eyes up to Gibbs. "He was standing right across Tony's desk and they were talking—you know how Albert gets—and then he started shooting. Boss, I just stood there. I couldn't—"

"What did they talk about, McGee?" Gibbs cut him off.

Tim paused, his face screwed up in thought. "Nothing special, just the usual: Albert's kid sister and then..." A shadow crossed the agent's face. "Then he said he wanted to report a murder."

"Whose?" Dr. Mallard asked, not looking up from his examination.

"Tony's."

Jimmy swallowed loudly and eyed the double doors as well.

"What I don't get is the lockdown," Tim wondered out loud. "No way Tony could have done it, so it must have been Albert; but there was no time to get to a phone."

"Or explain how it was done," Dr. Mallard pointed out. "We are all assigned a code that might be easily copied, but it is done by voice verification as well. Level Four is not so easy to initiate."

"How did he manage to slip away?" Jimmy asked but when Gibbs shot him a look over his shoulder, his mouth snapped shut. Jimmy inched back, hoping to once again fade into the background.

"Hm, two hundred and forty personnel, more than half of them armed. It is an alarming question, Jethro," Dr. Mallard jumped in, reacquiring Gibbs' attention.

"Director Vance has agents covering all the stairwells. Most of Legal, admin and the third floor are in the holding area. All the rooms and vents are locked in a Level Four. He can't go far," Tim spoke up.

"He won't," Gibbs growled as he rested his fists by Tony's feet.

"Since it's a mistake, can't they reverse the lockdown?" Jimmy asked as Dr. Mallard slid his stethoscope across Tony's diaphragm.

Tim grimaced. "That's just it. We can't. The moment we went to Level Four, all the computers shut down for some reason—even MTAC. There's something jamming communications. We've barely got essentials on emergency power."

"Is that supposed to happen?" Jimmy made a face. It sounded extreme even for a potential biohazard.

"No," Dr. Mallard muttered darkly, "it is not."

"No cell phones. Radios are useless," Gibbs growled. "We're sealed in."

"Yeah, but why lock yourself in with hundreds of agents and uniforms with no way out?" Tim's brow furrowed.

"Mr. Palmer, I think we need the number six and ten blades. And saline please. As many bottles we have," Dr. Mallard interjected.

Jimmy was glad to comply, letting something other than being locked in with a murderer to keep his mind busy.

"I think...I'm not sure..." Tim was making funny faces as he folded his arms across his chest. His eyes kept darting over to the tray of scalpels and Tony.

"McGee." Gibbs stepped in front of Tim, between him and the table.

After taking a deep breath, Tim tried again. "I thought…there was all this shouting, somebody returned fire…I think—probably Hanks—and I thought..." He shook his head. "I could be wrong. But it sounded like he was saying 'Low see in oh'...or 'Low sea'…something..."

"Low sea? Was he referring to our Navy?" Dr. Mallard offered as he probed the bruising around the raw bullet hole just a hand's width away from the belly button.

Jimmy clamped his mouth shut. He found he couldn't look at Tony. This was stupid. It wasn't like he hadn't seen de—bodies before. But no one actively bleeding. And they had all been strangers.

"What do you think Albert meant, boss?" Tim looked over.

"We can ask him when we find him." Gibbs nodded toward the double doors. He fished two small evidence bags out of his pockets. "Found them embedded in the file cabinets. Get to Abby, see if she's okay and—"

"Have her run ballistics. On it, boss." Tim caught the baggies with both hands as he dashed for the doors.

"McGee!" Gibbs shouted after him. "Ducky can only operate on one man at a time."

Tim paused, glanced back at the table, then gave Gibbs a curt nod before he slipped out of the doors, gun in hand.

Wait...Jimmy stilled.

 _Operate_?

* * * * *

It took Tim a few minutes before he realized the odd thumping he heard in his ears was his own heartbeat. In the back of his mind though, Tim thought it was at least better than the pained murmurings Tony made coupled with Gibbs urging Tony to take another step as they shuffled down to Autopsy.

Tim's feet faltered a step. He needed to take a few breaths to quell the violent twisting in his gut. He leaned back onto a wall, his hands curled loosely around his gun, pointed downward, its handle resting on his hip in a ready position. Tony had dispensed this kernel of wisdom, improving his stance with a light head slap and a toothy grin. It bugged Tim at the time, especially when Kate had snickered in agreement, but the lesson stuck all these years.

With main power down, the stairs were the only option now. Tim nodded to Gands when the agent spotted him descending the stairs. It was reassuring to feel the senior agent's eyes on his back as he crept down to the lower levels of the labs.

Just like how they taught him at FLETC, Tim let his gun muzzle enter the corner first before his body followed. He peered around walls and tested doors (they were locked, just as SOP said they would be in a Level Four) as he headed for the corridor that lead to Abby's lab.

 _Thump, thump, thump_ , his blood pounded in his ears. Tim had to constantly swallow because his mouth was drying faster than it should. And seeing Tony's blood covering his hands bothered him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to wipe his palms clean of it.

Even though it looked like the lower floors were spared the brunt of the power outage and the emergency lights lit the corridors, the turns and hallways still felt too dark, too shadowy, for him. He stopped at every door, jiggling the handles just to be sure they were still locked before proceeding.

Despite the fact he kept telling himself Gibbs wouldn't have let him go off by himself if Tim hadn't already proved himself capable, a part of him still flinched because it felt like his footsteps were too loud. Backup would be nice right now, but his backup was either outside getting coffee or down in the morgue.

A chill went down his back and Tim grimaced.

Poor choice of words.

* * * * *

The noise guided him the rest of the way to the lab.

It was distant, blaring but muffled as if it was buried under something heavy. Tim made a face as he approached. The sound reminded him of Abby's music, of the death metal concert she'd once dragged him to. But as he drew nearer to the glass doors, he realized it was the labs' warning alerts, usually reserved for toxic spills. He could see Abby over her station, doubled over.

His steps quickened. When he was several feet away, he broke off into a run, his gun down as he steered for the pneumonic door.

And he smacked into the glass. Tim dropped to the ground onto his rear. Hard.

 _Ouch_.

Inside, Abby perked up and now Tim could see heavy duty ear protection clamped over her ears, the ones she uses for ballistics. She spun around, pointed at Tim through the glass, red lips shaped into an "O," before she went over to the door and banged at it with both fists. Whatever she was saying was lost in all the klaxons wailing inside her lab.

"Abby, I can't hear—" Tim shouted but Abby pointed to her earmuffs with a latex-gloved hand. Tim scowled at the door. Apparently, lockdown really meant lockdown. The alarms and emergency lights ran on a secure separate line so they could go all day. Great.

Abby stilled, her head cocked as she watched Tim pat his pockets until he came up with his iPhone. She gave him a thumbs up, nodding pigtails at him, looking like she was bobbing her head to the alarms.

Tim pulled up a notepad app and typed quickly.

LCKDWN.

Abby scanned the message on his phone pressed to the door and lifted her eyes to him. She set her fists on her hips, her lips pursed.

Oh, right, that was kind of obvious. Tim ignored her "well, duh" face and typed more.

TONY BINSHOT. SHOOTER STILL OUT HERE. LCKDWN RIGGED. LVL 4. NEED OVRRIDE.

Tim should have mentioned Tony toward the end, because Abby's eyes bulged at the beginning and now she was gesturing wildly and talking at him.

"Abby, wait, I don't...I can't hear you!" Tim pleaded. She was giving him a headache.

Abby stopped, took a deep breath and pivoted around to her station. Tim could imagine her platform boots going _stomp, stomp, stomp_ as she grabbed something and came back to the glass dividing them. But instead of a phone, she had a white-board marker.

Without hesitation, Abby wrote on the glass between them, the backward red lettering on the glass, in perfect mirrored text.

Oddly enough, it made sense that Abby could do that.

OK?

Tim nodded because it felt like it would be too hard to lie around the lump in his throat.

Abby glowered at him.

W DUCKY, Tim typed out.

The glare never wavered.

GIBBS 2, Tim added.

Abby's face lightened and she gave him another thumbs up. Then, her mouth set, her face squinted into concentration, like how she would stare at her AFIS screen, willing it to make a match. Abby rubbed off what she had written with the sleeve of her lab coat and wrote more.

CANT GET OUT. LCKDWN FROZE MY CTRLS.

"Great," Tim muttered. A small part of him was glad, though. There was probably no place safer for Abby than a hermetically sealed lab. He cleared his screen and typed out another question.

PCS DEAD. URS?

Abby shrugged. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

BABIES SHUT. ANYTHING LINKED TO MAINFRAME KAPUT. HAVE URS + MINE HERE. NOT NETWORKED.

Tim felt a stirring in his gut.

CAN U USE THEM 2 HACK IN2 SERVERS?

Abby shook her head.

NOT W LAPTOP. Abby brightened and she snapped her fingers. She poked the glass as she wiped off her words and added CAN TRY MAKE EXT ANTENNA 2 CALL OUTSIDE. She shrugged.

Tim fidgeted as he stared at her words. Tim knew Abby's chances with only two working laptops were...He gave himself a shake. _Shut up, Probie_ , he told himself, not really surprised his internal voice sounded like Tony. He gave Abby a small grin and a thumbs up of his own.

Abby smiled back faintly before writing out something else.

WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?

Tim grimaced. He pulled the evidence bags out of his pocket.

WANTED INFO ON SLUGS. Tim didn't finish it. He tapped the bags on the glass.

Abby stared at the mushroom-shaped slugs and a finger came up to stroke the glass.

Tim noted her finger lingered on the bloodiest of the two, her dark eyes intense as they swept along his red-stained hand. Quickly, he stuffed the bags back into his pocket.

There was a flicker of something on Abby's face and her eyes were suspiciously bright. Her mouth was set in a thin smile, however, when she looked up and wrote one last thing on the glass.

I HAVE AN IDEA.

* * * * *

Jimmy found focusing on lining up the now-soiled scalpels was a lot easier than watching Dr. Mallard pack Tony's wounds. Maybe it was because the ME was using the same amount of time and care as he would with their other "guests," as he called them. Or maybe it was because during the whole procedure, Tony had been really, really quiet.

Tony was rarely silent for more than a few minutes. Jimmy once caught him, arms folded in front of him, muttering to himself quietly over some piece of evidence as he contemplated a case. It reminded him of Dr. Mallard and he had once told this to Tony. Tony laughed then and asked Jimmy if he was supposed to be flattered or insulted.

"Hm, I believe a few more should do it," Dr. Mallard mused, "Jethro, would you pass me—Ah yes, thank you."

Jimmy wished Dr. Mallard wouldn't talk to Tony like he would with their guests. There was a childish feeling in him that feared the ME was jinxing Tony.

"Mr. Palmer? The gauze?"

Jimmy blinked when he realized Gibbs had his hand outstretched, waiting.

"S-sorry," Jimmy stuttered and handed over the pack of sterile gauze which Gibbs promptly tore into.

"This might take a few hours, Duck," Gibbs said quietly as he did up the buttons on Tony's red-splotched shirt. Gibbs's jaw clenched as his fingers passed each stain.

"I would prefer to give him a nice bag of AB negative," Dr. Mallard murmured to himself as he draped a spare lab coat over Tony's torso. "His pressure is still lower than I'm comfortable with. All I was able to do was clean the wounds and stop the bleeding. It looked like the bullets missed every major artery and organ. He was quite fortunate."

"Real lucky," Gibbs grated out.

Jimmy winced and concentrated on making sure he didn't throw up on the tray of bloodied scalpels and needles.

"Actually, Jethro," Dr. Mallard said slowly. He studied Tony with a pursed mouth. "He was."

"Larger wounds were in the front, not the back as you would expect." Dr. Mallard carefully parted the coat to expose the dressings. "It would appear the bullets went through from the back, one under the scapula that exited just under the clavicle."

"Tony was able to turn away," Gibbs concluded.

"Yes, to the left. It's instinctual, human nature, to turn your dominant side first. Tony was able to twist his heart away from range. Otherwise, I'm afraid, it would have been fatal."

Jimmy gulped. He sat on the edge of the empty slab parallel to the senior agent and stared at his shoes. There was a smear of blood on one.

"It's odd though..."

"Odd?" Jimmy asked because it felt like he should be adding something to the conversation, even if it was only a question.

Dr. Mallard held Tony's wrist as he counted. Done, he nodded to himself and looked at Jimmy. "According to Timothy, the shooter was close. Close enough, even a novice would have the deadly accuracy of a...well...a..."

"A sniper," Gibbs said. He glanced down at Tony, his clenched fist resting just off Tony's right shoulder.

The ME made a face but nodded. "The shooter missed."

"Did he?" Gibbs absently tugged the lab coat higher. He checked his watch.

Dr. Mallard glanced behind his shoulder at the clock on the wall. "It's been fifteen minutes, Jethro."

Gibbs pulled at the coat again, shifting it to cover both shoulders. "Keep those doors shut, Duck. Take down some of those lights."

Jimmy felt the skin on the back of his neck tighten when Gibbs pulled out his weapon.

As he stood in the doorway, Gibbs looked over at Tony.

"He'll be all right for now," Dr. Mallard reassured him.

There was no reply, just a short nod before Gibbs slipped out the doors.

Jimmy blinked as some of the overhead lights were dimmed.

"Well..." There was a shuffle of Dr. Mallard's shoes as he moved to stand by Tony's head. "And now, Mr. Palmer, we wait."

Jimmy sat at the edge of the table and wondered if he should get the golf clubs out again.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing _standard_ about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.

There was blood under his nails.

Gibbs noticed it when his fingers curled around his Sig as he cleared another hallway. Blood, still bright enough to gleam, still fresh enough to make his nostrils flare with the iron-rich tang of copper and life.

The farther he got from the morgue, the more his insides knotted, like he was straying too far from the green zone, too far from the border of friendlies. He shouldn't feel like he wished for camouflage netting in his own goddamn building.

With the phone lines down, there wasn't even a walkie talkie to check upstairs on whether or not they had found the shooter. Shooter. No name. A name would make it personal. Personal makes people screw up. Gibbs couldn't allow screw-ups today. Especially not today.

The blood under his nails was starting to turn brown. It shouldn't, but he could feel his skin begin to itch.

Right about now, as Gibbs crept down the corridors, DiNozzo would mention some movie this reminded him of, say something in the earwig that would make Gibbs' teeth grate and his right palm itch to swat his senior agent's head. He used it to fill space, DiNozzo's version of a boat in the basement and Gibbs understood that. It still annoyed the hell out of him though.

No movie references today. No head slaps either.

Gibbs' teeth ground together and there was a dull bolt of pain in his jaw. He could feel the corner of his right eye twitch in return.

Where the hell was McGee?

Two more minutes of slinking along the walls, Gibbs got his answer in a way he didn't expect.

There was a muffled pounding from the direction of Abby's lab. He recognized it as her lab's internal alarms. Gibbs turned the corner a lot faster than his training would recommend. He stopped short, his gun still up chest level. McGee's back was toward him, facing the glass door that led to the lab. Abby looked like she was mirroring McGee. Sort of.

Abby saw Gibbs arrive and she waved a gloved hand.

McGee spun around with his gun gripped in one hand, a tiny evidence bag in the other.

"You need to watch your six," Gibbs said as he lowered his gun. He raised an eyebrow at Abby. She stared right at him through the glass door, her palms pressed flat to the glass, high above her head, shoulder width apart. She looked like one of those damn toys suction-cupped in people's rear car windows.

"We're uh...locked out or, well, Abby's locked in." McGee gestured.

Abby had her nose pressed against the glass as well now.

"Yeah, McGee, I can see that." Gibbs nodded at the evidence bag McGee was holding.

"Abby can't run full ballistics on this, so we're scanning the bullets two dimensionally."

Abby, on cue, hauled up what Gibbs recognized as her scanner, its lid missing.

"We've used the flatbed through the glass and she'll reconstruct the images in her laptop."

"Laptop?" Gibbs scowled. He could see the computers behind Abby dark and silent.

"Her systems were connected to our servers, boss. She's shut down as well. She's reconnected to the main power, but we can't get the doors open and her alarms..." McGee winced. "How's Tony?"

Even though McGee's back was to Abby now, she seemed to have sensed the question. Her dark eyes shot to Gibbs' face, her mouth crinkled downward at the corners.

Gibbs met her gaze and very slowly, gave his response. "Ducky's got him."

It was all he could afford to say.

It was enough for Abby because she straightened, her mouth moving, but then she scowled toward the ceiling at the klaxons and stamped her feet.

"Boss." McGee fumbled out his phone for some reason. "The alarms were so loud we couldn't talk, but we've been communicating with tex—"

 _Tony's going to be fine,_ Gibbs signed to Abby.

"That could work, too," McGee finished meekly.

Gibbs's eyes darted quickly over the flurry of fingers replying.

 _I can't get into the computers but I think with my laptop hooked into the hard drives, use the combined cache, maybe I'll able to do limited AFIS from previous searches and—_

Gibbs held up a hand and Abby stilled.

 _Just do it. I want to know everything we can._

Abby saluted and McGee smiled faintly. He never knew what they said, but it wasn't important. He got the gist.

"Have you seen any other agents?" Gibbs asked.

McGee shook his head. "I saw Gands on the stairwell when I came down, but no one in the halls. All the office doors are locked, too, so Albert couldn't have hidden in any. I tried to call Ziva before but nothing." McGee looked like he was tempted to throw his phone. "Boss, this is more than a lockdown. Not even the _internal_ phones are working right." McGee gestured toward Abby, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor doing...something to her laptop and scanner. "Abby tried her phones and one minute she gets Vance, the next she gets Legal. It's hit or miss."

Gibbs's lips thinned as he stared hard down the corridor leading to the stairs, its exit sign glowing red in the distance. It wasn't SOP for internal communication to be out in a lockdown, no matter what the level. By now, SecNav would have sent a response team who would have no idea there wasn't a real bio-weapon threat in here. Why? Why the lockdown?

A quick rap on the glass caught Abby's eye and she leapt to her feet with an ease he normally envied.

 _How much you think you can get out of your laptop?_ Gibbs regretted his question as that incited a slew of signing that made her look like she was having a fit.

McGee inched closer with a frown, but to his credit, he was turned halfway toward the unguarded hallway, hand resting on his hip holster.

"Get me as much as you can from those bullets and see what she can remember about..." Gibbs clenched his jaw.

"Albert?" McGee supplied, but blanched at Gibbs's glower.

"Albert," Gibbs repeated tightly. "I want to know his background, if he has the skills to create a lockdown like this, how the hell he managed to bypass Security to get a weapon in here—"

"Boss, we're not in the network. All Abby could do is...ah..." McGee visibly swallowed when Gibbs stared at him. "Well, Abby was thinking she could probably jury-rig some sort of Wi-Fi antenna to boost her cell phone and get through to some—Ah, on it, boss." McGee stuttered to a halt and began typing out his idea, because Gibbs sure as hell wasn't going to try and sign that to Abby.

Abby nodded as she glanced down through the glass to read what McGee was typing. After a few lines, she looked up and mouthed four words, "Get who did this."

Gibbs didn't bother nodding. Abby already knew his answer.

* * * * *

Instead of sugar, Ziva poured salt in Tony's cappuccino.

As she stood there waiting for her order to be filled, Ziva realized she had the cotton pulled over her eyes. Tony had tricked her into making the coffee run.

She muttered darkly in Hebrew as she threw the change from the ridiculously priced drinks into the dented plastic cup earmarked for tips. The cashier (barbie, barter, _something_ ) cringed before telling her to have a nice day.

Ziva stomped out of the coffeehouse, the tray of coffees sloshing in her grip. She set the coffees down on one of their outdoor tables when her cellphone buzzed an alert. She was still grumbling to herself when she pulled it out. Her words died as she read the text on her screen.

NCIS.HQ ALERT: SEC LCKDWN IN PROGRESS. ALL AVAIL AGENTS EAST GATE.

Ziva was down the block, zipping around honking cars before she remembered she'd left the coffees behind.

* * * * *

The East Gate, furthest from the Navy Yard's front gate and housing the visitors' parking lot, was already crowded with agents who had been out that morning. They were arguing with someone in full battle gear.

Ziva barely glanced at his assault rifle as she elbowed agents to reach him.

"What has happened?" Ziva demanded at the Marine perched at the gate. She could hear a helicopter flying high above them and recognized the deep, rhythmic tempo of the rotary blades of a military craft.

"You can't come in, ma'am. I advise you to stand back."

"I work here. We all do!" Ziva shouted above the screeching of jeeps braking behind them. Boots thundered past them, soldiers swarming the few cars parked in the lot, long wands with mirrors shoved underneath as the bottoms of cars were visually swept. Others tugged the leashes of large regal-looking dogs, like the ones who had been trained in the compound when she was a child.

"Lockdown!" The Marine nodded to someone behind her and he barked in his radio that air samples were being collected. _Air samples?_

"What's the nature of the lockdown?" Another agent pressed forward next to her. Ziva vaguely remembered him on the desk behind Agent Hanks.

"All we know is a Level Four lockdown was alerted to all departments at 1050," the Marine answered, "but no further communication has been possible."

Ziva set her jaw. She tightened the grip on her phone and stared past the parking lot toward the low, red brick building in the distance.

* * * * *

It made sense to go down to the basement level. What better way to beat a computer than with a floor full of the country's best tech agents?

Tim watched Gibbs dart toward one corner and drop into a crouch. The senior agent peered around it, his eyes narrow, his mouth grim, then gave Tim a small nod.

At the nod, Tim hurried to the opposite corner, making sure to remain stealthy. He grimaced. It still felt like they were making too much noise. Even his breathing sounded loud in his ears, but Gibbs never gave him anything more than short nods after each check of a door.

Tim copied Gibbs, balanced on the balls of his feet and peered around the wall edge. "Clear," he mouthed.

Gibbs acknowledged with a jerk of his head.

They alternated, corner to corner, door to door; Gibbs faced one way down the hallway, Tim aimed his gun the opposite direction. Tim wondered why he never realized just how many doors were in this place. Was the basement this big before? Had it always been this dark? What a stupid place to store thirty-nine mainfr—

Gunshot.

Together, they jerked, slammed their backs to the walls they were positioned against. The short bark had come from the main area, all the way down, three long corridors down. Tim was very aware how there was only two of them. Just two. Tim wished Tony was here. He was the better shot. He had hit the bulls-eye five times at the range, then teased Ziva about it all day when she'd only gotten four.

Tim bit the inside of his cheek, letting the sharp pain bring him back to focus. The echoes of gunfire had logically faded, but there was a ringing in his ears and he thought he could hear screaming again, like when he had jumped on top of Tony to protect him.

His gun aimed high for a clear shot, Tim trailed behind his boss as they followed the hallways down to the main room. He saw Gibbs's spine stiffen and like Pavlov's dog with his bell, he reacted by hugging the wall again, even before Gibbs's arm shot out to push him back.

The room was dark, save a few squares of flickering light. Just enough to see a man standing in the center of the room.

"Hands where I can see them!" Gibbs shouted. "Hands!"

Even though Tim had been expecting it, he still jumped at the hard order cutting through the hum of computers. Wait. Computers? But that meant...

"Lower your weapons! It's Gands!"

Peeking around the corner, Tim saw the towering agent, his hands in the air, his service weapon hanging loosely off a finger in a clear sign of zero threat.

"Did you see him?" Gibbs snapped as he lowered his gun and steered right for—

Oh no.

The curly brown hair and stupid yellow suspenders Tim had always made fun of him for were immediate markers. Tim lowered his gun and stared in dismay at the body by Gands' feet. He was thankful it was facedown. Tim didn't need to see to know who it was.

"I was checking this floor's exit when I heard the shot." Gands shook his head even as he holstered his gun. "By the time I got here, the kid was dead."

"It's Joe Walters." Tim swallowed. "He works— _worked_ the security filters here. Where's..." He swiveled his eyes left and right. There were eight desks, all empty. "Jennings, Stetson, Jones, uh..." The other names escaped him for the moment. Tim stared at Walters. He looked away when he realized the two closely clustered shots on his back were creating a red halo around him. He never should have mocked Walters when he had been assigned to work down here. And the stupid thought that he still owed Walter six bucks for lunch was squashed immediately.

A rattling and muffled shouting alerted Gands and Gibbs.

Tim tensed as he watched the two agents approached the server room near the rear. Tim raised his gun just as Gibbs slowly curled a hand around the door handle. From here, he could see Gands mouthing down a count, "Three, two, one."

With an abrupt yank, Gibbs opened the door and, together, Gands and Gibbs pointed their guns into the room. Tim gripped his gun with both hands and he nearly tripped over the Walters' legs as he fought to stay in position.

"It's the techs," Gands announced as he straightened. "Duct-taped and tied up like presents, but they're alive."

"Seven of them," Gibbs reported as he scanned the room.

"Lucky seven," Gands grunted.

Tim pulled his foot back a little when he saw how close he was to the blood pool surrounding Walters. "Yeah," he said numbly, his eyes on the checkered shirt and stained suspenders. "Lucky."

* * * * *

The fact that one workstation was still on didn't seem to make things better.

Tim could hear Gibbs interviewing the rest of the tech group, the survivors. Everybody sounded shaken and he fought the queasiness tickling the back of his throat when he heard Jennings throw up into a wastebasket after staring at Walters' body too long.

"Gibbs, someone's on his way down to retrieve the body for Dr. Mallard," Gands muttered.

Too loudly because Tim heard more vomiting. But he didn't dare turn around to see who it was.

"What about Hanks?" Gibbs asked.

"Heard from Marks he arrived at the morgue about five minutes ago along with a couple of digital cameras full of pictures of the scene. Ballistics might take longer." Gands made a frustrated sound. " _Everything's_ going to take longer."

Ironic, Tim thought, considering the crime scene was in NCIS itself.

Gands checked his weapon and grunted as he snapped the magazine back in place. "How's DiNozzo?"

"He's okay." Gibbs paused. "He'll stay that way if he knows what's good for him."

Tim smiled tightly, suspecting that was more for his benefit. But the cold lump sitting on his chest thawed a little at the unwavering declaration. It was a hard voice to ignore; one that had anchored Tony during his bout of the plague.

The train of thought inevitably trickled down to memory of blue lights and harsh coughing. He forced himself to stare unblinkingly at the screen of Walters's station. Tim was grateful the keyboard and monitor was clean of blood; he was sure he wouldn't have been able to touch the workstation otherwise. Tim forced himself to only look at the monitor, his eyes burning as he brought up every log he could access.

It looked like Walters had been in the process of reestablishing the connections, rigging power back to one station. He'd only have time to open one window, though not to the security lockdowns.

Tim could hear everyone filing behind Gands to go up to the holding area. He almost wished Gands hadn't left. He understood the practicality of herding everyone to one location. It made it easier for the armed field agents to search the building for Al—the shooter—if there weren't hundreds of potential hostages running around.

Unfortunately, it also made everything quieter once they left. Tim's typing became loud to his ears.

"Walters was picked out of the group to get this computer running," Gibbs said.

Tim jumped. He knew the senior agent was behind him, eyes on the door, gun cradled loosely in his right hand. Tim could see his reflection on the screen, a sentinel in the dark and the knot in his chest loosened.

"The rest were locked in there. Through the door, one of them heard the shooter instructing Walters on what to do."

Tim raised an eyebrow. He glanced at the screen in front of him. "Albert?" he blurted out in disbelief. He cringed when he saw the reflection turned his way. "Boss, I don't see how...he didn't look like he knew anything about computers."

"He didn't look like he could shoot DiNozzo and kill two agents, either."

Tim's shoulders slumped. "He had us all fooled."

"Maybe," was all Gibbs said. He stood at Tim's shoulder. "Can you access the lockdown commands from here?"

"No. I mean, Walters got it powered up and got it connected into our servers, but he only managed to create a gateway into our database, nothing else. I can try to recover the logs, but the only thing that's been activated was the link to our storage partition. I-I mean, the security protocols haven't been breached." If it _could_ be accessed from here, that is. Tim tried a few commands before he snorted. The computer squawked resentfully back. He glanced up to Gibbs. "Maybe Walters didn't finish?"

Gibbs looked at him, waiting.

Tim blinked and turned to stare at the computer again. "Then why kill him before he was done?" he muttered. He flexed his fingers before they flew across the keyboard. "And why not do it himself if he knew enough to give Walters instructions?"

"Because he didn't know," Gibbs added in way of agreement. "He recited them to Walters."

Tim's fingers froze mid-air. He gaped at the screen as it occurred to him. His head whipped up toward Gibbs. "Someone told him what to do? But that means he had help. So—"

"Albert's not working alone," Gibbs finished.

* * * * *

The first thing that came to mind when Tony opened his eyes was that there weren't any red-checkered tablecloths. The second thing came when the cool, flat metallic surface he was lying on finally registered.

Morgue.

 _Anthony, this is not a good sign._

Tony must have said it out loud because he heard a, "Doctor Mallard, he's awake!" and Ducky's face filled his vision.

"Well, well, my boy, you had us worried there."

Tony blinked blearily up at the ME. "I'm not dead."

"I should say not." Ducky sniffed. "As limited my resources are, I haven't forgotten my years in Oxford."

Tony's brow knitted. His mouth moved carefully, his tongue felt thick, his neck stiff. "Please tell me you didn't use that liver probe on me," he croaked.

Ducky's broad smile was both reassuring and nerve-wracking. He just patted Tony on his left shoulder and edged out of sight.

"Where's G—" Tony pushed up on one elbow and wondered why Ducky suddenly surged forward, why he could hear shouting when a blink later—

The room exploded into white light, flared behind his eyes and fire burned down his right side so sudden, so sharp, Tony's arms spasmed, his right leg lashed out and dimly, he thought he felt himself kick something when his whole upper body jerked. Tony could feel himself sagging, swaying, off the edge of the metal table before two hands gripped him by the arms, another wrapped around the back of his neck.

"Easy, DiNozzo, you're not up to sitting right now," Gibbs rumbled as Tony's head bumped into his chest.

"Careful. Timothy, straighten his legs out and elevate them on top of the—oh bother. Mr. Palmer, if you be so kind as to retrieve that bin?"

Tony could feel something churning in the back of his throat like bubbles frothing and sloshing and...

"Wait," Tony groaned. He could feel himself clawing Gibbs's arm. His eyes watered. He swallowed convulsively. "Hold up, I'm gonna...I have to..."

Before he could double over (a move Tony suspected would really suck), a hand cupped his jaw and tilted his head, guiding it toward a wastebasket shoved under his chin. He could hear Ducky telling someone to watch his shoulder but then bile burned up to his mouth and, argh, his stomach ignited as he retched.

"Slow breaths." Gibbs's voice was low and steady, his hand kneading the back of his neck as Tony vomited around his groan.

Fuzzily, Tony felt himself guided down onto the metal slab and something warm was pulled over his chest. His eyes watered when he tried to draw in a breath. Okay, breathing deep is not a good idea right now, either.

Palmer gaped down at him. He looked a little freaked.

"Ow," Tony rasped.

"You could say that again, Tony." McGee sounded unsteady when he showed up to his left.

"You better not throw up on me, Probie," Tony wheezed. Something clicked when McGee's white face came to view. Tony coughed (okay that was a bad idea, too) and he stared up at the ceiling. Why was it dark in here?

"Albert." Tony's mouth soured at the memory of the gun and the brief thought that he was screwed, even as he threw himself off his chair.

"Yeah," McGee bit out.

Gibbs's eyes looked black, hard, almost creepy, Emily Rose black (American version not German) sort of way and Tony hadn't seen Gibbs this uber-Marine since Ari. It took Tony aback a beat before his surroundings reminded him again.

"So," Tony began. He hissed when he tried to move. His lower back arched and he groaned as needles stabbed him in his right shoulder. Well, that answered his question on where he was hit. "Do we know why?" Tony carefully moved his head to face Gibbs.

"We were hoping you could tell us," McGee admitted. "One minute, you two were talking, the next, he started shooting."

"I got nothing. Anyone else got hit?" Tony tracked Gibbs's flinty glare and turned his stiff neck to the left. Ah damn. He could see two bodies, one still in a body bag, the other...

"Hanks," Tony groaned. His throat worked. "He just finished telling me about his trip with his fiancée." He stared at the profile before turning back to Gibbs. "You get him?"

Gibbs's eyebrow twitched. "Not yet."

Tony glanced over to McGee.

"Walters," McGee sighed. "From Tech."

Tony grimaced, this time not from the sharp pounding of his body.

Gibbs studied Tony, his mouth was a flat, unhappy line. His eyes darted over to Ducky behind him before returning to him. "What do you remember, DiNozzo?"

The gun. The taste of blood when he bit his tongue. The first punch of heat rammed into him, stealing his breath.

"Not much," Tony said hoarsely. "I mean...I can't think of anything we were talking about that would have...He talked about his kid sister, like always." Tony paused. "Not that I'm complaining, but is there a reason why I'm down here, or is this your way of breaking the bad news gently, because I gotta say, boss, I—"

It was a dumb move to try to get all that out. Tony knew he would normally have known that, but talking had been distracting him from the stab-throb piercing pain digging into his shoulder. Except now talking created the same stab-throb sensation in his stomach as well.

Gibbs settled a hand on Tony's chest, keeping him down, anchoring Tony as he coughed. He could hear Ducky somewhere behind him, McGee yammering about something that was probably all geeky and boring and crap, Tony could barely get a breath in and he thought he could taste blood in his mouth again and he wished Palmer would stop yapping by his ear and it felt like he was flying and—

"...and out, Tony."

Somewhere in the haze, Tony realized he was sitting up once more, slumped against something solid. He stared at whatever was coming toward him, twin white dots that confused him until the chalky taste against his lips drew a name.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything stronger," Ducky was saying as he wrapped a pressure cuff around his left arm.

Tony shivered as the cool metal of the stethoscope slid in between the cuff and the inside of his elbow.

"Take two of those for now," Ducky murmured as he began squeezing the ball thingy.

"Do I have to call you in the morning?" Tony asked tiredly.

Ducky chuckled. Palmer and McGee sounded like a pair of asthmatic hyenas.

Tony gagged at the taste and it hurt going down his throat, but the bottle pressed to his mouth promised some relief. He could hear Gibbs murmuring as Tony tried to swallow, but his body didn't seem to want the cool liquid and he choked.

"Damn it."

Uh oh. Gibbs sounded really mad, Tony thought fuzzily as he felt a hand rubbing his back, but that didn't make sense because he could sense Gibbs's arm over his shoulder, his other hand on his chest reminding him to breathe. Maybe Gibbs had more than two arms. That would be awesome unless it was a Sigourney Weaver-alien thing, then that wouldn't be very awesome and even downright...

The pressure cuff squeezing his arm drew his thoughts away from ventilation shafts and screechy, big-headed monsters. Tony panted as he leaned heavily against Gibbs. He made a sound when he felt the bottle against his lips again. He was thirsty and even though someone murmured to go slow, he couldn't stop from gulping and it ended up all over Gibbs's shirt. Oh crap.

Tony stared blearily at the wet spot. He could feel the hand on his back. He coughed and felt Ducky remove the cuff from his arm.

Ducky's hand lingered on his arm as he stared at the dials. "Jethro..."

"I know, Duck."

Tony knew this was a conversation he should really be listening to, but he was trying to keep his eyes opened a little longer because really, passing out in the morgue felt like a bad idea, and despite his blurry vision, Tony could make out the tray of bloody scalpels and wads of gauze in the tray behind Gibbs.

"Boss?" Tony whispered and he felt Gibbs hunched lower.

"Yeah, Tony?"

Tony blinked, but spots were filling up everything in front of him. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I think...I think I'm gonna call in sick tomorrow."

That done, Tony's eyes rolled up and he didn't think of anything else.

* * * * *

Jimmy stood at the foot of the slab, gnawing his lower lip as he watched Agent Gibbs carefully rearrange Tony on the cool surface, Doctor Mallard busying himself with taking Tony's BP again.

Tim was busy trying to solve the whole mystery by himself. "...but why reactivate a workstation when he's already shutdown all the stations deliberately in the first place. I don't even know how, but if he did have help on the outside, it could explain how he did it but not _why_ he did it..."

Jimmy wondered if this was how Tim, as Thom the bestseller novelist, figured out his crimes. He eyed Gibbs, who was tracking Tim with a set mouth, his hands on Tony's shoulders as Doctor Mallard's pressure cuff went _whoosh-whoosh_ around Tony's bicep again. His stomach knotted when Dr. Mallard peered up at Agent Gibbs over the top edge of his glasses.

Tim was talking even faster now and he kept starting to pace, then interrupting himself, never really going farther than Tony's head.

"... and I could see how he might have gotten help on the computers but how did he initiate the lockdown? That's voice command only and Security confirmed it was Tony who called it in, but obviously it wasn't him. And what's 'low sea into' anyway?" Tim skidded to a stop when he realized everyone, save Tony, was staring.

"I…uh uh…was just thinking out loud, boss," Tim stammered.

Jimmy gulped when Gibbs merely stared hard at his agent.

"You said he was always talking to you?"

Jimmy blinked. He was expecting Gibbs to be...louder.

Tim appeared taken aback as well but he recovered quickly. He made a face. "Not in the beginning when he first worked for us. Last few weeks though. We were here a lot in the mornings waiting for the grand jury." Tim ran a knuckle absently along the edge of the metal slab.

"Every day he had some question..." Tim's eyes widened. "You think he was recording us? Our voices, I mean and made some audio file to phone in?" Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "Sounds like something out of a movie," he muttered.

Jimmy's eyes automatically flew to Tony. When he looked up, he found everyone else's had as well.

"Doesn't explain how he knew the code. Only agents were given the pass code," Tim mumbled. He shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting. "Or what 'Low sea into' means."

"I'm sorry," a voice rasped from the table.


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing _standard_ about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.

Ziva always prided herself with patience, her ability to sit huddled under camouflage for many hours while waiting for her target. Today, after an hour of repetitive "under lockdown" however, she was ready to beat someone's brains down.

No. In. Or was it out?

" _Harah_ ," Ziva muttered. She ignored the glower the gate guard gave her and disregarded the warning look the Marine from the response team tossed over.

"Has anyone reached MTAC yet?" someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

Ziva scowled when the Marine said something about communications being useless.

In her pocket, her cellphone buzzed.

Ziva carefully settled a hand over her pocket and slipped back into the crowd. She avoided eye contact, kept her stride small and unobtrusive and, like a ghost, Ziva disappeared into the crowd and out the gathering's back.

The cell shivered in her grip as Ziva pulled it out behind a row of SUVs. Ziva breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was a text message from Abby. She muttered a prayer under her breath, but the hint of the smile she wore faded when she read the message.

LOCKDWN FAK. NO GERMS. TONY SHOT. IN MORGUE. SHOOTER STILL HERE. TRAPPED INSIDE. ABBY

Ziva swallowed, her eyes scanning the message once more. She looked through the SUV windows across to the Navy Yard building that had become more familiar than Hayarkon Park or the Dizengoff Center . Her jaw set. She looked at her phone again and read the words over and over but she couldn't get past the sixth word. Ziva closed her eyes briefly and took a steadying breath. She schooled a blank expression as she entered a number her father gave her long ago. She had only used it once before. For Ari.

The click told her the call had been picked up. The second click told her the line was now being scrambled.

" _Shalom_ ," Ziva greeted the silence. Her salutation was not returned. She was not offended by it. It was what they were all taught to do.

"I need information," Ziva added. Her other hand glided down to the holster clipped to the back of her trousers. "I need...unofficial information."

* * * * *

Waking up should mean he was feeling better, right?

The tightness around his throat, his chest and his gut was still there, though; vices squeezing to the point he woke up.

"Sorry?" Palmer echoed.

"You have nothing to apologize for, DiNozzo," Gibbs said gruffly as he settled a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Lie still."

"I can't talk like this," Tony wheezed. He tried to push himself up with his left elbow. "It's like talking from a deep hole." Gibbs placed a hand between his shoulders and helped. Tony panted as he sat up, his head lolling against Gibbs's arm. Vaguely, he felt Ducky settled a hand flat on his back.

Tony blinked, trying to get anything to focus. Tony took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," Tony repeated.

"There's no need to apologize," Tim jumped in.

"This wasn't your fault," Jimmy added.

Tony blinked again. He coughed, sagging against Gibbs. The senior agent looped an arm over his shoulders to keep him upright.

"Of _course_ this wasn't my fault," Tony huffed. He waved a hand at himself. Then he nodded toward Tim. "It's not 'Low sea into'." He shook his head, squinted at a spot beyond his toes.

"Al's from Morelos," Tony said wearily. "He was saying _'Lo siento.'_ 'I'm sorry.'" He glanced up at Tim. "Let me guess. High school French, Probie?"

Tim's brow furrowed. "Why would he be apologizing?"

"It sounds like he regrets shooting Tony," Ducky mused.

" _I_ regret him shooting Tony," Tony volunteered in a breathless voice. He could see Palmer frowning. Although Tony wasn't sure. Everything was looking a little gray and his head ached, tilted funny against Gibbs's side. Tony wasn't pushed away though.

Balancing the urge to pass out with the need to stay sort of upright was getting harder to do. While Tony appreciated Gibbs playing the role of a brick wall, Tony also knew any minute his stomach was going to revolt again. And sure, DiNozzos don't pass out; they also don't throw up on their bosses. Twice.

"Do we have any footage?" Tony managed. He felt the weight of Gibbs's arm over his shoulder. He shrugged his good shoulder, but the arm only tightened minutely around him. The edges around his vision sharpened. A little. Maybe. Close enough.

"No," McGee said as he stared at the other bodies. "With the lockdown, we can't access—"

Wait. Tony sat up straighter—crap, _big_ mistake—and blinked burning eyes at McGee. "'ock'own?" Tony coughed but that thick feeling clogging his throat wouldn't go away.

"Lockdown?" he repeated. He was glad to hear his voice had cleared somewhat.

"We're in a Level Four," Palmer told him.

"Another plague?" Tony grimaced. "You didn't burn my clothes again, did you?"

There was a faint smile on McGee's face. "No, but your laundry bill is going to be interesting."

"The lockdown was planned, DiNozzo." Whoa, Gibbs has this weird "voice from above" thing going on that vibrated down to the arm around Tony shoulders as well as the chest Tony now realized he was resting against.

"Records show you called it in," McGee added. "We think Albert must have recorded your voice, synthesized it and called it in, pretending to be you."

Tony shook his head because one: the room was doing some bright, dark, disco, night-clubbing light thing and two: what McGee told him didn't add up.

"How?" Tony rasped. "Albert was busy. Can't see him stopping to make a call."

"He could have rigged an auto-dial, insert a sound clip within the cache to time—"

Tony shakily lifted a hand. "Wait, wait." No fair dishing out techno-babble when his brain was oatmeal. "Albert can't do that. I helped him last 'onth to set up his speed dial."

McGee made a face. "Oh, yeah."

Tony tilted his head as much as he dared to look at Gibbs because just hearing him was just too unreal, too strange and made it feel like Gibbs was too far away.

"DiNozzo." Gibbs didn't look pissed anymore. The shade of concern Tony could see in his gaze—he hadn't seen it since the plague— _that_ was actually scarier.

"F-four, huh?" Tony swallowed. "Guess 'at means no…ambulance?"

Gibbs nodded.

"Jus' as well," Tony panted. It was getting hard to pull the words out. "In'urance needs a de…dead duck…" Deductible. He was trying to say deductible, damn it. The sickening déjà vu of struggling to breathe forced his eyes open from the droop he could feel pulling. Tony closed fingers on the lab coat that had fallen to his lap.

"Albert somehow initiated a Level Four," McGee said, quickly.

Dimly, Tony wondered if Gibbs was giving him the glare. "Shoots Tony, kills Hanks, goes to Cyber Crimes and kills Walters."

"MO," Tony wheezed. He squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulder was feeling three times heavier now.

"What's that, Tony?" McGee leaned in.

Tony wanted to tell him to get a breath mint.

"M…O," Tony tried to get out. He felt Gibbs easing him down on his back. No, wait. Tony snagged a sleeve.

Gibbs nodded curtly. He got it. Of course he did. Gibbs _always_ got it. He didn't pry his arm away from Tony's weak grip and pulled Tony to settle against him again.

"He killed Hanks and Walters but not Tony," Gibbs remarked.

"Not complaining..." Tony's fingers twisted the sleeve further. He felt like he was spiraling. He coughed and that hurt, too. "…'oss."

"Duck." Gibbs settled a hand over Tony's brow. "He's warm."

Was he? Tony shivered. He squinted up at Gibbs again. "Bad?"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes as Ducky came into view with a stethoscope. Gibbs stared steadily at Tony, his mouth set in a hard line.

"Oh." Tony took a careful breath. He flinched, his hand curling on the sleeve when it felt like everybody was trying to lay him down again. He fought the instinct to tense his stomach and just clawed at Gibbs's sleeve.

"Tony, you need to rest," Palmer chided, one hand fisted on the back of Tony's shirt.

Tony shook his head. "Keep talking," he croaked.

"But…" McTraitor decided to gang up with Palmer.

"So Albert's not working alone," Tony bit out, prodding them to continue, to keep the gray matter working. Tony swallowed convulsively and blinked rapidly to clear the spots.

"The know-how to do this is beyond him," Gibbs agreed.

Tony blearily caught him shaking his head at everyone and Palmer's tugging ceased. Yeah, go team.

"Someone gave him instructions on how to get us into lockdown." McGee kept interrupting himself from going back and forth as he talked. It was a little annoying. "Whoever it was taught him to get our computers to shut down and stopped us from getting in to reverse it."

"Why?" Tony wheezed.

McGee froze. "I…I don't know." He did some wide-eyed, open-mouthed thing like Gibbs had told him a knock-knock joke.

"I don't see the point of locking himself in, either. He can't get out," Ducky murmured in that James Bond _sotto voce_ Tony always thought was cool and fitting for him. He couldn't imagine Ducky with a martini though.

"Maybe he mistimed it?" McGee suggested.

"Or he wasn't planning on getting out yet." Gibbs tensed against Tony. "He has everything he needs in here."

"What?" McGee stammered.

Tony would have rolled his eyes if he didn't think the rest of him would follow. "Fish in a barrel," he coughed out. Tony could feel the former Marine nodding against him.

"So Albert was aiming for them…on purpose?" McGee made a sound as he paced. "But he didn't kill Tony."

"Again," Tony panted, "not complaining." He furrowed his brow. "How did he get a gun in here?"

"Good question," Gibbs growled. "Bullets looked like 9mm."

"Judging from Tony's entry wounds and the initial examination of Hanks and Walters, I would concur," Ducky agreed. "All three were very close range, close enough for the bullets to exit the body completely."

"Abby might have been able to rebuild the ballistics on Tony's slugs," McGee said. "Maybe we can find out something about them."

"Where's Abby?" Tony interrupted because the conversation about bullets and his slugs was creeping him out. Tony scowled when McGee told him. "And you just left her there?"

"She's locked inside."

"So she can't get out," Tony gritted. "What about Albert getting in?" As Abby was fond of telling them, there was no such thing as bulletproof glass.

"But why would Albert want to shoot Abby?" McGee protested.

"Why would he want to shoot _me_?" Tony hesitated. "Brinon." He felt Gibbs jerk.

"Hanks testified to the grand jury," McGee realized, "and we were supposed to go tomorrow. Tony's down. Only ones left are—"

"You and Ziva," Gibbs concluded in a terse voice.

"Ziva's not here," Tony coughed. "But if Albert isn't working alone…"

"Abby was trying to get communication going," McGee jumped in. "I'll see if she can warn Ziva."

"Not alone," Gibbs cut in harshly. "You're a target."

"Boss, too," Tony exhaled. He felt Gibbs giving his good shoulder a brief squeeze. Tony blinked rapidly as he felt himself eased down. Away from the solid support, Tony felt chilled.

"Ten minutes, DiNozzo," Gibbs promised as he pulled out his weapon. "Keep the lights down and the doors shut, Duck."

"Probie," Tony called before he could walk out.

McGee turned to him, his face lined with concern. It made him look older, weird in a Benjamin Button sort of way.

"We'll watch each other's six." Gibbs read the look on Tony's face before it slowly dawned on McGee. There was something unreadable in Gibbs's gaze as he stood over Tony a beat longer. When Tony weakly smiled at him, Gibbs turned on his heel and left with McGee.

Tony felt Ducky settling a hand over his head but he kept his eyes on the doors. Ten minutes, Gibbs said. Ten minutes.

_One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi…_

* * * * *

If she had a gun, she would use it.

Abby sat cross-legged on her lab floor. She glared at her laptop: her insufficient quad core, sixteen gigabyte, over-clocked piece of junk. She could hear the hard drives spinning, creaking along as they tried to render a decent 3D image from the scans she made. Sheesh, she could probably do a better job with Photoshop and some duct tape.

Tim's laptop—twice the power and doubly useless—was searching out any signal from 3G to Wi-Fi to any moron's router whose password was still "admin."

Abby looked longingly at Major Mass Spec, at her desktops and her now-silent flat screens. Her dark eyes traveled to the wall of postcards she hadn't the heart to dismantle. Tony's angry blowfish pose still stood out in the photo she taped on top as a header for her "DiNozzo wall."

Abby sniffled.

"He's with Ducky. He's with Gibbs," Abby muttered as she glowered at the line by line rendering of the second slug. Her flatbed scanner was able to grab the images through glass and evidence baggy, getting a clear enough of an image to show even the flecks of dried blood on it.

"He's with Ducky. He's with Gibbs," Abby chanted again, but it was hard to feel better when she was staring at something that had blasted through someone she knew. It hadn't been this hard since doing the ballistics on the bullet that had killed Kate; a comparison she loathed making as soon as she thought it.

It was clear even without touching it, that the bullet was a 9mm Luger. She made a face because it was too common. Rifles, shotguns, air guns all use the 9mm, never mind NCIS. Gibbs and everyone else in the building carried a Sig Sauer P226. The rounds were ordinary, nothing custom or unique to make it stand out. So trying to identify the weapon by memory was out.

If only they had found the cartridge casings. Breech markings would have narrowed down the list. She only had what was cached from previous searches on her hard drives. She might as well use a Ouija board. Then again, not good messing with Mr. Ouija and she had put her board in the evidence lockup after the last time she played with Cassie. It freaked her out and it was left there along with the purple underwear.

Abby gave her head a violent shake. Lack of caffeine, decent music and the reassuring sensation of keys clicking against her fingertips was making her mind float and wander even without the astral projection stuff. Although, an OBE right now would be useful. She sighed, shook a finger at her laptop and it stalled, frozen until Abby stroked the side of the screen in apology. The last thing she needed was the blue screen of death. She _needed_ those renderings.

All that was left was hoping her makeshift scans were able to pick up the rifling and striations. If she could get the patterns, she could check her cached searches and then Google, if Tim's laptop could sustain a steady enough connection. If it could, maybe Gibbs could check the paper records in evidence lockup to see who might carry such a weapon and if—

Abby scrunched up her face.

It was a lot of "ifs."

Despite the heavy duty earmuffs, Abby could still hear the lab alarms’ muted wailing. You would think they would combust by now. Abby constantly looked up at her glass door, hoping it would magically open.

Sighing to herself and unable to hear it, Abby stared glumly at the screen. She looked up again. Nope. Doors still closed. She was beginning to feel like one of her samples spinning, spinning, spinning in her centrifuge. Gibbs wasn't going to be dropping by, using his awesome Gibbs ESP powers and bringing her Caf-Pow. Not even Gibbs could break into her lab during a Level Four, although she would bet given a bigger gun, Bossman could probably get in here. Maybe even get Tony out. Yeah, crazy gun-toting bad guy or not, Abby knew Gibbs would find a way. It's _Gibbs_.

The screen winked, a gray window appearing to tell her it was finally done. Abby could imagine the lovely chime it must have made.

"Yes!" She flailed her arms in a football cheer before she switched the search window to scan all the hard drives' caches in hopes of a match. Even the sluggish response of images comparing to her renderings couldn't dampen her spirits.

Feeling better, Abby bounced her head a little to _Solamingus_ in her head, letting its fluctuating tones dictate the beat—although Tony had once complained it was too uber-techno to have one—as she watched the image sharpen on the screen. She didn't believe in that watched kettle never boiling myth. She'd clocked it when she was nine and, watched or not, the kettle still boiled in the same amount of time. Abby rapped her fingers on the laptop, clicking her tongue as she looked up again and yelped.

"Not nice!" Abby scolded Tim and Gibbs standing at her door. She unwound her legs and rose to her feet.

There was no way for Tim to hear what she had said, but he guessed enough to offer her a sheepish smile as an apology. He pointed to his laptop on the floor. His face fell when she rocked her hand left and right. He didn't cheer up when she swiveled around her laptop; she wasn't doing cartwheels either.

Gibbs kept his eye and gun on the hallway but every so often, he checked on Abby, his mouth unsmiling but his eyes not doing the beady, dark, Marine laser glare he usually did with a bad guy. Abby took a deep breath. It was just as good as an open door. Sort of.

CAN U TXT ZIVA? Tim resorted to his iPhone again.

Abby grinned. She did one better. She wrote to him how she had been able to send a quick message to her about the lockdown before the intermittent signal had rolled over and choked on her.

For some reason though, Tim didn't look thrilled. He was even pulling off a pretty good mimicry of one of Gibbs's frowns. He turned his head to say something to Bossman and Gibbs jerked his head to Tim's phone.

Tim's mouth thinned as he typed into his iPhone.

BRINON CASE. ZIVA MAYB TARGET. TXT HER AGAIN. TELL HER 2 WATCH HER 6.

Abby stared at him, her stomach lurching. Brinon? She dropped to her knees and hunched over Tim's laptop. She eyed the wiring that she had snaked up to the basement windows, sealed and solid. Short of an armor piercing bullet, the glass was going to stay one piece. Darn Gibbs; he had kept his word after Ari and switched out all her windows for bullet resistant panes.

The yellowed bars indicating scant reception was discouraging, but it was still better than her phone. It had transformed into a paperweight the second Level Four occurred and the scramblers kicked in. Abby brought up an instant messenger window to type a message out.

It felt like she was walking on tippy toes. Blindfolded. She missed her machines. She missed her computers. She missed her hug; the one Gibbs would have given her as he tells her Tony was going to be okay. It felt wrong not to get a "He's not going to die because I said so" hug from Gibbs.

Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Tim waving to get her attention again. She scrubbed furiously across her cheeks, sniffled loudly and turned to him. Tim was on the balls of his feet, his iPhone pressed to the glass for her to see.

ITLL B OK

Abby nodded. Of course, it would be. She nudged her laptop toward him to point to the rotating images and Tim gave her a set of crossed fingers. His grin faded at her scowl though because she didn't believe in crossed fingers any more than she believed in shy boiling kettles.

Suddenly, Tim's eyes widened and he pointed frantically at the screen. Even Gibbs stepped in closer to see.

Swiveling the screen back around to her, Abby whooped—it was weird when she couldn't hear herself—when sure enough, her baby had somehow found a match. Score! She leaned closer into the screen and squinted at the results. Her mouth dropped open and she sat back on her rear.

"Oh crap."

* * * * *

It was frightening how much the Mossad knew.

Ziva eyed the utility cover on the concrete platform buried and forgotten under years of bureaucracy and poor maintenance. _Waterworks of District of Columbia_ branded the thick plate, the lettering rusted and barely distinguishable, but if her sources were correct, the Navy Museum's tunnel ran adjacent to the tunnels just under the NCIS evidence area and garage.

Grim, Ziva checked her weapon. A full clip was not reassuring when she knew her other magazines were locked in her desk. She was becoming complacent as an investigator: she went out for coffee with just her Sig, assuming she would need nothing more. She failed her previous training; she wasn't supposed to _assume_ anything.

It took a few tries before the plate eased off using the crowbar she had borrowed from one of the responding units that surrounded the main building. The entire Yard, including the neighboring museum was shut down, but for some reason, NCIS remained barricaded. Evacuation was impossible.

The foul smell of stale water, wet, thick and oily belched out of the opening in a burst of steam. It clung to her hair, her clothing, even her skin.

Ziva scowled as she tied back her hair to get it out of her way. She looked past the foliage, only feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving her fellow agents behind.

But then she thought of the text Abby had sent her.

Ziva's eyes slitted, her lips thinned. She ignored the ache in her chest as she remembered the message. There would be time later to absorb the ramifications of the dead. Now is what she needed to focus on. Ziva embraced the taut hyperawareness as familiar as the weight of her weapon in her hand. Her loyalty was to her team and them alone. She has no patience or tolerance for anyone inefficiently following her. Ziva David would deal with this herself.

Idly, as she descended the ladder, she wondered on the wisdom of her actions. She mused, as she hopped off the last two rungs onto the floor, if there were mystical mole people or vampires lurking in the forgotten tunnels. Would _Deep Six's_ Agent Lisa be as bold to do this? While the team leader would berate her for doing this, Ziva was sure he would be proud of it as well. And maddeningly, this reminded her of a movie she could not think of right now.

Ziva stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes.

Her team had been a corruptive influence on her.

* * * * *

"What's wrong with Hanks?"

"Besides the fact he's dead?" Jimmy mumbled. He grimaced when he caught Tony's heavy-lidded glare. "Sorry. What?"

Dr. Mallard looked up from the table he was hunched over. He pushed back the headlamp he wore to inspect Hanks' corpse. "I am assuming you mean the condition of his body?"

Tony didn't sit up, having learned his lesson minutes after Gibbs and Tim had left, but his head was turned toward the two metal tables.

"Something…" Tony croaked, his brow knitted. He shook his head.

Dr. Mallard nodded to Jimmy, his frown deepening. Jimmy snagged a bottle of water by the trays and twisted the cap off.

"Tony," Jimmy prodded as he slipped a hand behind Tony's neck and raised his head, "come on; try to drink some more water."

"You guys are wearing it more than I'm drinking it," Tony muttered, his voice edged with a weariness that hasn't gone away since Tony first awoken. He relented though, his lower teeth clacking uncontrollably against the mouth of the bottle as he tried to drink the lukewarm water. After a few gulps, Tony shook his head and dropped back onto the table, spent.

Jimmy eyed the BP cuff on the roll out tray. He bit his lower lip.

"It's not going to change," Tony muttered, his eyes closed. "You guys do that puff-puff thing around my arm, look at the numbers then look at each other like I can't see it."

Laughing uneasily, Jimmy gave Dr. Mallard a questioning look, but the ME shook his head.

"You usually have your eyes closed, Tony, so you really can't see it."

"But I know it's there." Tony's eyes were fogged with pain as he stared at the ceiling. "What's wrong with Hanks?"

Jimmy shrugged helplessly at Dr. Mallard. "I don't understand."

Tony grimaced. "Me, neither," he admitted. "I can't put my finger on it." He paused. "Well, technically, I really can't. I'm over here and he's all the way over…"

"Tony?"

"Someone did sketches?" Tony tried to push himself up on an elbow.

Dr. Mallard frowned mildly, his hands still deep within the chest cavity. "You should lie still."

"Did someone take photos of the crime scene up there?" Tony insisted.

"Here, here, here. They brought down the cameras when they brought down Agent Hanks." Jimmy snagged him one of the Nikons. He dropped a hand on Tony's shoulder, carefully bearing down until Tony was supine again.

Tony's breathing was loud, shallow as he motioned to the camera.

"Show me," Tony croaked. He lay there, his eyes intent as Jimmy scrolled through the images for him. Tony winced at the sight of his desk and the blood splatters, but did not comment.

"There." Tony pointed to the image of Hanks face down on the carpet.

"Where's Hanks in this photo?"

Jimmy blinked at the question. "I ah…I'm not sure…Agent Trinston bought down the body and…" He checked the clipboard for the agent's hasty notes. "I don't think he mentioned—no, he did. Uh...Hanks was two, maybe three feet from your desk."

"He should've had a clear shot then," Tony wheezed.

"Maybe he missed or Al shot first?" Jimmy suggested.

Dr. Mallard shook his head as he stepped away from the body. "I haven't had much time to examine him since they brought him down here, but preliminary checks show no gunpowder residue on his fingers." The ME hesitated. "Also, the chest cavity held the exit wound."

"So he was shot in the back," Jimmy murmured, perplexed. "Why would he have turned away from the shooter?"

Jimmy caught Tony rolling his eyes. He gave Jimmy a look he was pretty sure if Tony was currently capable would have been followed by a head slap. Jimmy chewed his lower lip thoughtfully.

"What about Walters?" Tony asked in a rasp.

Dr. Mallard unzipped the body bag.

"The back as well," he confirmed.

"The grouping?" For some reason, Tony's voice sharpened.

"Two shots through the scapula, three centimeters apart, piercing the heart."

"Kill shot," Tony hissed. He hovered a hand over his wounds.

Jimmy stared back and forth, feeling like he was watching a tennis match. "W-what?" he stammered.

Tony pushed up on his left elbow, fighting against Jimmy's hand. He grunted, his pale face now flushed with exertion as he tried to bend his right leg. The lab coat that was covering him fell to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Mallard hurried over.

Jimmy caught Tony by the shoulders as he started to sag to the side.

"My backup," Tony gasped. He gestured weakly with his left hand toward his ankle. "I n-need my backup."

"Tony, you have to stay still," Jimmy pleaded.

"Enough," Dr. Mallard said sternly as he wrapped both hands on Tony's ankle, stilling him. "I'll get it. You must not move."

Drained, Tony slumped against Jimmy. "N-need…"

"Yes, yes, but you won't be much help if you worsen your condition." Dr. Mallard tsked as he peeled back the coat covering Tony's torso. "You're bleeding again."

"I don't understand." Jimmy knew he should though. He'd worked here long enough to pick up a few things, but all he could think about right now was how clammy Tony felt and how much blood had soaked through the gauze and shirt.

Tony shakily wrapped both hands around the weapon's handle the moment Dr. Mallard slipped the backup revolver into his palm. He blinked rapidly, sweating, chest heaving as he checked the chambers and grunted.

"Ducky, I need you two to lock yourselves in the restroom," Tony bit out. "Move the lockers or roll something inside to block the door. The desk, if you have to."

"Absolutely not," Dr. Mallard snapped. "We are not leaving you here—"

"I've only got six in the chamber! Might be enough to stop Albert, but not enough to also stop…" Tony squeezed his eyes shut as he hissed in pain when Dr. Mallard peeled back the packing in his abdomen wound. "Ducky, now's not the time," he groaned.

Jimmy gripped Tony firmly by the shoulders. Tony was shaking too hard to stay upright, but he fought Jimmy's efforts to lay him flat. The gun, though, was steady, aimed for the double doors and it was like all the lights in the morgue came flooding back when Jimmy finally put it together.

"There was a second shooter," Jimmy breathed.


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing _standard_ about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.

She was alone.

Ziva pursed her lips as she considered the wired fencing that wrapped around the evidence lockup area.

The garage was shut; heavy barricades had dropped the moment the lockdown was engaged, isolating them from the outside. Abandoned soldering irons, circular saws, crowbars and various tools were left on the floor. She assumed the technicians were rounded up and evacuated to the holding area; it was a procedure she'd always disagreed with. Supplying a more concentrated target area was counter-intuitive to Mossad's strategy.

Evidence to her left, the skeleton of an SUV to her right. The vacant area stirred an uneasy feeling inside. Ziva's mouth twisted. She'd often thought the garage was noisy: more technicians than necessary in one space. But with all of them gone, the garage was stripped of its ear-splitting chaos.

Gun straight out ahead of her, Ziva swept her weapon left to right as she used the crates as cover. She ducked behind the burned husk of an SUV, peering between its metal struts to determine if she was clear. Her nostrils flared at the lingering smell of C4 and oil and buckled steel. She couldn't stop herself from thinking about her little sister, Tali.

Ziva wished Abby had taken the time to include information on the shooter, but Ziva also knew judging by the lack of response that communications must be brief. She did not like to ponder on why she had not heard from Abby since. She hoped the three aborted vibrating alerts were her friend calling.

Perhaps she had become indolent during her years with NCIS. Alone, with only herself to trust and rely on, Ziva expected to slip back into the mental state of the darker moments of service to her father's cause. Instead, she was uneasy with the thought that Gibbs was not shadowing or running parallel to her, McGee was not watching her via a camera and Tony…

Ziva swallowed. She muttered angrily to herself, in the words of her father, the Mossad's version of a head slap that usually stung more than the actual kind. She squared her shoulders. The elevators were up ahead, exposed and shut. She readjusted her grip and trotted for the double doors. Even though nothing reacted to her movements—not a footfall or shadow—the taut line across the back of her shoulders did not ease when she reached the elevator. She slapped a palm by the retina scanner, unsurprised as it stayed dull and inactive, but still angry that even this would not cooperate with her.

Ziva glowered at the elevators. Moments later, she cocked her head and looked over her shoulder at the garage behind her.

And smiled.

* * * * *

"If you say 'I told you so,'" Tony wheezed, "I'm shooting you."

Palmer, however, only checked with Ducky. Must be an ESP thing doctors and autopsy gremlins learn in medical school.

Ducky made a face like he was sucking a lemon (he would have a story about it, too), but didn't comment as he adjusted the sling he had made to pull Tony's right arm tight against his chest so it wouldn't bang against the armrest on the chair.

The office chair by the metal slab had been a compromise. Sort of. The two MEs wouldn't barricade themselves in the restroom (damn it) and Tony had refused to lie on the slab for another minute. Tony would have argued procedure with them, but he was lousy with the chapter, line and verse of the NCIS manual. Gibbs had focused more on drumming his rules into them than official procedure.

Tony wished his backup revolver was actually his Sig, but it had been left behind when Gibbs and McGee brought him downstairs. Six bullets in the chamber, he was feeling like Alan Ladd in _Shane_ steering unavoidably toward a showdown and right now, he couldn't remember if it had turned out all right.

Tempting as it was to go after Gibbs, warn them about the second shooter, Tony was having problems with the "go" part of his plan. Sliding off the slab and easing into the chair had hurt a lot more than it should and Tony was pretty sure he'd pas— _blanked_ out a few times getting there, hence the medical mime conversation Palmer was having with Ducky. They bookended him, doing that weird nod and eyebrow thing Tony didn't have the energy to decode.

"What?" It came out sharper than he'd intended but at least they stopped having Charlie Chaplin-style conversations above his head. It was like Abby and Gibbs signing. Kinda rude and completely unfair.

"We should try to get more fluids in you," Ducky said instead of whatever Tony suspected he _wanted_ to say.

Tony grimaced. "Fluids" would be great if it stayed down. His throat was parched, his tongue gummy like he'd been chewing on a mouthful of sand. He was thirsty, but the minute anything relatively cool hit his gut, muscles recoiled and the agonizing sensation of fire slashing across his stomach locked his body into rigidity as the water came back up against his will.

"Maybe later," Tony suggested. He feebly batted a hand at the bottle Palmer swung his way.

"Tony—"

"Last thing we need is for me to pass out from throwing up water _again_ ," Tony cut Palmer off harshly. "I need to stay alert!" Crap, that wasn't a good move. Tony groaned, his head dropping forward as his chest was suddenly unable to take in oxygen.

Vaguely, Tony could feel a hand—Ducky or Palmer's—on his shoulder, bracing him so he wouldn't embarrass himself by falling out of the chair after spending so long arguing to be in it.

"…bleeding again…"

"…could try…stitching…not advisable…"

"…maybe an IV…could rig…"

Tony held up a hand to halt the medical babble buzzing by his ear. He was eased back into the seat, a rolled up lab coat stuffed behind him to ease the pressure on his lower back.

"For a few minutes, until Jethro gets here," Ducky agreed. He left a hand on Tony's forearm.

" _Jethro_ ," Tony bit out, "should have been here by now. It's been thirteen minutes—"

"Twelve, DiNozzo."

Shit! Tony wasn't sure why none of them heard the doors, but he elbowed Ducky behind him and kicked his chair forward as he pointed his gun at the new voice. His chair, propelled by the kick he'd overestimated, sent him too forward, too fast until two hands grabbed an armrest.

Tony stared up into Gibbs's shadowed expression, his revolver now settled on the armrest. He breathed heavily, unable to get what he wanted to say out, his arms shaking with the effort.

McGee was comically flat against the wall by the doors, looking bug-eyed at Tony's backup weapon pointed at his crotch.

"You…" Tony managed, "you said ten minutes."

Something flickered in Gibbs's eyes and he nodded. For a brief moment, Tony feared Gibbs was going to apologize and _that_ would have been—as Abby would like to say—hinky.

Under Gibbs's careful control, the chair was gingerly rolled back to park next to his vacated slab. Thankfully, Gibbs said nothing, but Tony thought he saw a tight smile when Gibbs observed the gun in Tony's hands.

"How's Abby?" Palmer spoke up.

Tony was too busy trying not to breathe too deeply. He rested his left arm on the slab next to him. He wished he could lay his head down, but it would pull at his right side too much.

"She's fine," McGee answered but he was looking at Tony. "Got the ballistics back on the gun." McGee winced as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's Pacci's. It should have been stored in Evidence."

"Now we know how he got a gun. Or one of them at least," Tony muttered. He couldn't feel any satisfaction when McGee's mouth dropped open. Gibbs had that stoic "I knew it all along" thing he must have learned from Parris Island.

"There's a second shooter," Gibbs concluded, his mouth a grim line.

"The change in shooting pattern certainly suggests it," Ducky added. He indicated to the bodies with a tired hand gesture. "Also 9mm, also close range, both in groupings of two."

"Kill shots," Gibbs said flatly.

"In the back. I don't think either one of them saw it coming," Ducky added sadly. Ducky gave Gibbs a small evidence bag. "There were no slugs in Agent Hanks, but poor Walters…"

Gibbs lifted up the bag to consider the spent bullet.

Tony blearily tracked the bullet as it was passed around. He wondered if they had done the same before with his. He cautiously shifted in his seat.

"So Albert didn't kill Hanks or Walters?" McGee tested saying it like it was a new word from his Word of the Day calendar. He nodded to himself. "The grenades. The call to lockdown. The second shooter could have done it." McGee stiffened. "But that means…"

Gibbs grunted and whoa, Tony hadn't seen that "I'm going to rip somebody's arm off" scowl since Ari.

Palmer fidgeted. Tony took pity on the gremlin.

"The second shooter is one of us," Tony croaked. He grinned weakly up at Gibbs. "Wasn't me though."

There was a brief crack on the darkness over Gibbs' expression; Gibbs smiled (grimaced) back.

"Think the second shooter was the computer geek?" Tony asked hoarsely. He kept his left hand cupped over his backup piece.

McGee chewed on the tip of his thumb. "The computer was clean when I was there. Walters was shot _away_ from the computer. Maybe Walters was finished?"

Tony briefly closed his heavy eyes. He needed to rest his eyes; just a few seconds. "Lockdown?" He could feel the warmth of Gibbs' hand on the back of his neck, grounding him to the present.

McGee stared at Tony for some reason. "Never accessed. I don't even know if it _could_ be accessed from there. Primary servers are usually the only ones. I…" He glanced over to Gibbs. "Boss, I think I need to go back down there. Maybe I can access the protocols there, reverse the lockdown, at least get a door opened or communications or—something."

Tony listened half-heartedly as the four men above him bickered or talked—they could be doing a barber shop quartet; their voices all ran over each other, all sounding the same and far away and Tony was trying really hard to care…

Two fingers tipped his chin up and he lifted red-rimmed eyes to meet a steely, determined gaze inches from his face. Gibbs wordlessly pressed a bottle of cloudy water to his mouth. Tony sputtered at the taste of bitter, melted pills splashing against his lips.

"All of it, DiNozzo. Come on…"

Tony wanted to protest that water was a bad idea, that _drinking_ was a bad idea, but Gibbs offered no choice. One hand cupped the back of his head, the other curled around the water bottle; there was nowhere to turn.

Tony bleated a protest, all he was allowed, before the bottle was tipped up. He dutifully drank the warm water, his body tensing in anticipation of its revolt. Pain burned in his stomach and Tony coughed; water dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Keep it down." Crouched by his ear, Gibbs rubbed his thumb into the knobby bones that disappeared into the base of his skull. The wire sharp thrumming under his skin eased a fraction. It was easier to swallow now.

"Just a bit more. Little bit more, Tony."

Fuzzily, Tony thought it didn't feel like it was "a little bit more," but he tentatively gulped down mouthful after bitter mouthful, nevertheless, murmuring a feeble protest when Gibbs kept promising, "Just a bit more."

Finally, the bottle was pulled away. Tony's shoulders sagged. How could _that_ have exhausted him? He blinked blearily at Gibbs and McGee, who was suddenly just there and looking like an extra for _Blair Witch_.

"I'll get into the lockdown systems, Tony," McGee swore shakily. He gulped and dropped a hand on Tony's knee. "Just hold—I'll get it done."

"MIT," Tony mumbled, his mouth tugging at the corners.

"You know it." McGee rose to his feet. "Ducky, need help getting Tony back up on the—"

"No," Tony rasped. "I can't shoot flat on my back."

"Tony, I don't think you can shoot _sitting_ right now," McGee pointed out.

Tony curled his hand over his revolver. He set his blurry vision on the doors. He thought of Ducky and Palmer standing behind him, counting on his protection. "'ere," he ground out.

Gibbs remained where he was, his mouth pinched as he studied Tony. He nodded curtly before draping someone's jacket over his shoulders. Tony shivered and the coat closed tighter around him. Gibbs then wrapped his hand around Tony's and the gun, squeezing them together.

"Keep an eye on them, DiNozzo." Gibbs glared at him, but even in the haze that seemed to have settled over him, Tony could tell there was no heat in it.

"Jethro—" Ducky started to protest.

Gibbs glanced up over Tony's head. "For as long as he can, Duck. Unless one of you want my backup?" He cracked a humorless grimace at them. "Didn’t think so."

It didn't feel like a victory, but Tony bleakly smiled anyway. He kept his eyes on Gibbs, unwavering as the Marine stared back.

Then, deliberately, Gibbs reached around and gave him a rap on the back of his head.

 _Blue light, drowning in the open air, tasting blood collecting in his throat_. Back then, Tony could only hear the roaring of his hammering heart. But a hard tap had knocked it all away and a clear and precise command demanded to be heard.

His chest relaxed, air soothing not choking this time and his body remembered it even when Tony had wondered if that had been delirium dying people got. Guess it wasn't a dream after all. Tony's mouth twisted ruefully. He blinked, swallowed and nodded at Gibbs.

Message received.

Gibbs's dark gaze eased, lightened and his hand gave Tony's neck a squeeze before he straightened from his crouch.

"McGee," Gibbs bade brusquely and they left, Gibbs without a backward glance.

But Tony got that. That was Gibbs's way. Now was not the time for mushy-eyed Marines because _then_ Tony knew he was in trouble.

Tony drew in a careful breath, planted his feet on the floor and kept his eyes on the door. The back of his head still vaguely ached, Gibbs's version of a Post-it.

_"You. Will. Not. Die."_

"Got it, boss," Tony whispered.

* * * * *

The computer would have to wait.

No sooner had they reached the exit, then they heard the double shot. McGee tensed and gave Gibbs an uneasy look. Gibbs nodded.

It had come from below the morgue, above the tech level, but still away from the bullpen. Agents in the stairways, agents in the holding area, there weren't many left to respond to the muffled thunder.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes as he gripped his weapon. His jaw clenched as he considered the direction they were heading. Then he jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Let's go."

* * * * *

Ziva stared at the six foot wall of piled—she wasn't sure, but one of it looked like the mass spectrometer— _things_ that blocked the glass door that led to Abby's lab. She tried the secondary door and blinked. The back of the refrigerator now filled the entire doorframe. She could hear the lab's alarms still wailing inside so her knocks were not heard.

This was unexpected.

Abby's lab felt like the logical place to rendezvous. The morgue was her second and less preferred choice.

But this…

The crowbar Ziva used to pry open the non-functioning elevator twitched in her grip. As tempting it was to swing it at the door, Ziva also knew this…barrier was possibly set up as additional protection against the shooter. She pursed her lips, unnerved to find herself at a loss on her next step.

Then Abby's head popped up on top.

" _A broch_!" Ziva drew her arm back but hesitated when it disappeared. Wait, Abby's head appeared again, then gone. Up and down Abby's earmuffed, pigtailed head came and went as the technician jumped up and down to get Ziva's attention.

Finally, Ziva saw the mass spectrometer move along with a computer monitor, an old fashioned lunch box with an odd, square yellow cartoon character on it and an opened parasol.

Abby's broad grin was infectious when she reappeared in the area she cleared. She was hugging her hippo, Bert, scribbling something on the freed glass with a marker.

Ziva stared at the words that appeared, wondering absently if mirrored writing was a skill she herself should consider learning. She chuckled softly as the cramped message sank in.

IM CALLING U NINJA ZIVA FROM NOW ON

Giving Abby a slight nod of acknowledgment, Ziva pulled out her phone to type a message on her cell.

WHERE IS GIBBS?

TO C TONY MORGUE

 _Oh_.

Abby took a look at her face and suddenly she was gesturing wildly, shaking her head; her mouth moved too rapidly for Ziva to guess.

"Abby, wait…slow down…"

Abruptly, Abby stopped. She scrubbed her hippo furiously across the glass to clean her words off and slowly, in big letters, she wrote three words.

TONY NOT DEAD

Ziva stared at the words a beat before she exhaled. She glowered at Abby, shaking her cell at her.

Abby's mouth formed an "Oops" before she grew serious again.

ALBERT SHOT TONY

"Albert?" Ziva's brow knitted together. She had assumed—again with the assumptions—it had been an intruder. She raised her cell to type out another question when two shots echoed behind her.

Despite the alarms in the lab, Abby froze as well as if she had heard them; she had seen the change in Ziva's posture and knew immediately. Abby nodded with uncharacteristic meekness when Ziva gestured at the door before turning toward the shots. A sharp rap on the glass drew her back.

Abby pressed both her hands on the glass, her mouth a decided downward tilt, her eyes overly bright.

"I will be careful," Ziva mouthed slowly. She nodded to Abby, waved gently at the door again. As Abby started to rebuild her barricade, Ziva rounded back her shoulders, took a deep breath and ran towards the sounds.

* * * * *

It was disconcerting, Ziva decided, how dark the building was as she moved closer to the disturbance, the crowbar still in one hand, her gun in the other. The emergency lights cast a red hue to the dark orange walls. They provided little in light and only added to the shadows. When she reached the vicinity of the interrogation room, she went rigid.

It was completely dark.

Ziva dropped to a crouch and peered around the bend.

A hiss of a bullet sent her head snapping back.

"Federal agent! Lower your weapon, Albert!" Ziva shouted. She swore as another shot buried into the wall opposite her. High velocity, possibly 9mm. She set down her crowbar, double-gripped her weapon and twisted back around the corner. Another shot close enough to her ear made her flinch, but it was also what she needed. She centered her gun toward the muzzle flash she had seen and fired.

There was a soft impact; the sound of striking flesh but there was no cry of pain. Instead, there was another muzzle flash, now on the other corner, diagonally from her, in a good enough angle to send a bullet slashing across her left bicep.

Ziva jerked, the shock vibrating down her arm and sending her gun spinning out of her grasp. She fell back then sideways into the hallway she from which she'd come.

Three more shots punched above her head. Ziva squinted. Where was her gun? She snarled as she snatched her hand back when a bullet came close to her searching fingers.

The crowbar dug into the back of her calves when she scooted back. Ziva grabbed it and threw it at the last place she had seen the second muzzle flash. She heard a grunt, a clatter and then footsteps.

Ziva frantically patted the floor in the darkness until she found her gun. As soon as she grabbed it, she felt the cool profile of a gun sliding against her cheek from behind.

Her face contorted into a snarl as she reached back, grabbed the gun by the muzzle. She yanked the weapon and gunman forward, her elbow driving back to hit something soft. The moment she heard a familiar grunt though, she froze, which was just as well because a new gun jabbed her on the back of her neck.

"I wouldn't."

"Gibbs?" Ziva burst out at the low growl. The gun pulled away.

"Ziva?"

Ziva could vaguely make out a hunched shadow by her feet. "McGee?"

"Zi'a?" McGee groaned.

Ziva's shoulders dropped. "I thought you were the shooter." She winced when McGee's phone snapped on, a square patch of light scorching her eyes.

"Do you mind?" Ziva snapped, as she threw up a hand.

"Sorry." The light lowered. "What happened to the emergency lights?" The patch of light swiveled up towards the wall-mounted beacons, revealing the shattered lamps. "Oh."

"Did you get a look at the shooter?" Gibbs was suddenly to her left. "You hit?"

"A graze." Ziva rotated her arm. It burned, but did not feel as though it would be disabling. "It was too dark, but Abby told me it was Albert."

"One of them at least."

"One of them?" Ziva stepped away from the scrutiny she could feel. "There were two shooters," she surmised instantly.

"Looks like it," McGee didn't sound as high-pitched now as he straightened up next to her with a groan. "How did you get in here?"

"This building has many security flaws," Ziva said primly.

"Can we get Tony out through it?" McGee asked as he swept his phone down the corridor.

"No, the way I came in…it would be too much for someone injured." Ziva looked to the direction where she sensed Gibbs. "How bad is he?"

"Bad," Gibbs said succinctly.

Ziva swallowed. "Oh." She eyed the direction of the muzzle flashes. "I am sure I hit one of them."

In the dark, she could sense Gibbs nodding to her, wordlessly pressing her weapon back into her hands. The tension that had sat across her shoulders unwound as she felt the two men next to her. Their presence fortified her, far more reassuring than the gun in her grip.

McGee's phone made for a poor flashlight but it was still sufficient enough to see the puddle of dark, luminous blood spreading away from the shattered skull.

"It's Albert," McGee reported. His light tilted downwards. "Gunshot to the side of the head, boss."

Ziva felt a kernel of remorse. She remembered Albert as harmless. Perhaps if she had been present when he had first attacked in the bullpen, her opinion of him may have devolved.

"Two more bullets in the shoulder and side." Gibbs hefted the body up to find the exit wounds. "Not enough blood."

"They struck him post mortem," Ziva surmised as she stared at the beige janitorial uniform. The large chain of keys was missing from his belt, but there was still the tool kit and iPod clipped to the waistband. She crouched and studied the bullet holes under McGee's light. "These were my shots."

"Killer got to Albert first," Gibbs agreed.

Ziva's face twisted. "I must have arrived after the second killer shot Albert."

"So now we're back to one shooter." McGee breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's still one shooter too many, McGee."

"Sorry, boss."

Ziva patted the body's pockets carefully. She found his wallet first, showed it to them in the meager light and checked again. When she pulled out a digital face watch, she felt cold.

"Gibbs," she called to attract their attention. She raised the watch so they could see. "It is not telling time." She pulled McGee's wrist, bringing his light source closer to the watch face. The numbers rolling back made her chest clench. "It is counting down." It was damp. She rubbed her fingers across the surface, wiping off whatever it was. She squinted at the watch. "We have twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes before what?" McGee's light bobbed erratically as he turned to Gibbs. "A bomb?"

"Maybe." Gibbs sounded grim as he considered the possibility. "Turn the body over," he ordered.

When they rolled Albert to his back, they saw the horrified expression that would be on his face permanently. Ziva heard McGee gulp as the light struck the gray pallor.

There were no wires, no remote, no deadman's switch found on Albert. A pen, crumpled paper, the iPod, a battered Swiss Army pocketknife and his keys were pulled out. His belt was threaded out of his pants.

"Nothing." Ziva stared at what they'd gathered on the ground. "I see no evidence of a bomb. We need to test Albert for residue."

"Maybe there isn't a bomb?" McGee spoke up hopefully. He poked at the contents as well. "When I saw him this morning, it didn't look like he had anything on him to make a bomb—"

"The explosions in the wastebaskets," Gibbs reminded McGee.

"Explosions?" Ziva asked sharply.

McGee exhaled. "Two. Mostly smoke though."

"They must have been planted ahead." Ziva pursed her lips. "To cover the shooters' escape."

"I still can't figure how Albert evaded us this whole time," McGee said glumly.

"Not the whole time," Gibbs bit out.

Ziva grimaced. She looked down at Albert. "He was betrayed by his partner. Why?"

"Uh…we're still trying to figure out the 'why' part for the _lockdown_ , Ziva."

The watch was heavy in her hands, a deceptively innocuous item on her palm. "Albert or the other shooter could have planted another explosion," Ziva said.

"Then why lock yourself inside a building with a bomb?"

"Perhaps they thought they would be able to leave before the time ran out." Ziva checked the contents again. She picked up the iPod. It was similar to the one she used whenever she jogged. Her eyebrow rose.

"What is it?" Somehow, even in the dark, Gibbs could read her.

Ziva drew her eyebrows together. She held up the iPod. "This is lighter than I expected." She gave it to McGee who tested its weight.

"Actually, yeah, you're right. It's…empty?" The two halves of the device split easily with a nudge of McGee's finger.

She frowned.

"It's hollow," McGee said.

Ziva palmed the few pieces that fell out. "Not quite."

"Something's missing," Gibbs murmured.

"Yeah, the hard drive…" McGee trailed off. He gaped at the shells. "Hard drive. There's…uh…usually there's a solid state flash drive in them to store the mp3 files and mp4 clips and, and, and—boss." McGee grabbed the pieces. "There's enough pieces in here so when it goes through the x-ray machines, it would look like a normal iPod but, there's not enough in here." McGee started tossing the parts one by one to the ground. "The battery pack, the processor, the brackets for the—"

"McGee."

"This was gutted to make room for a bigger hard drive. Definitely not a flash drive. And the older models used a larger chassis so it can definitely fit a 2.5 inch—"

" _McGee_!" It was Ziva's turn now.

McGee's mouth snapped shut. "Boss, I think we need to go back to that computer. I think I might know what Albert was trying to do."

  



	6. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing _standard_ about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.

Anthony was not well.

Ducky observed the herculean effort Tony was making to stay upright in the chair. Mr. Palmer was failing in his efforts to hide the fact he was hovering.

It was testament to Tony's present condition that he did not notice his assistant pacing a tiny arc behind his chair. His covered shoes rustled as he lingered by their friend.

"Palmer, are you trying to take flight or start a fire on my head?" Tony suddenly rasped.

Mr. Palmer started.

Hm, Tony was becoming more and more like Jethro every day. Ducky hoped it included the Marine's resilience.

"You cannot fault him for his concern," Ducky said two tables away. Agents Trinston and Marks had brought Albert for his services. "After all, as a mutual acquaintance of ours would say: you look like crap."

Mr. Palmer gawped at him but he recovered quickly to add, "I really think you should lie down, Tony."

"I'd rather not." Tony hissed though, his face twisted into a grimace.

His assistant shot him a desperate look. Ducky lowered his gaze, his throat working. There is nothing more to be done until they were allowed to leave.

"Mr. Palmer, if you would assist me, please," Ducky opted to say instead. "I need some more light here."

Shoes scuffed before they reluctantly reached him. After a squeak of wheels, the portable lamp flooded the exposed body.

"That's interesting," Ducky murmured. He tilted a wrist toward his freestanding magnifying lens. He prodded the dark purple striping. "Mr. Palmer, what do you make of this?"

"What?" Tony had avoided looking at the body since it was brought in. It was understandable: there would be a psychological unease facing the man who tried to kill you. But at Ducky's comment, Tony glanced over, his body still facing the door.

"Bruising," Mr. Palmer identified. "Evidence of swelling." He frowned mildly. "Maybe he banged into something during his escape?"

"Possibly." Ducky checked the other arm. He pulled up a gray-splotched sleeve and hmmed. "Same here. Thin, around the wrist bone, whatever it was had constricted blood flow and from the angle, it was in a downward force."

"Handcuffs?" Tony spoke up. "Could it have been handcuffs?"

Ducky pursed his lips; he'd prefer better lighting and magnification, even an x-ray of the radiocarpal joint before making a prognosis. Unfortunately, they were presently lacking both the equipment and time. By the agents' ominous warning relayed from Gibbs, they only have fifteen minutes. _Fifteen minutes to what?_ was what Ducky needed to find out.

"It could have been handcuffs," Ducky reluctantly agreed. He held up his arms, exposing the insides of his wrists. "The coloring is lighter on this side, suggesting he was cuffed in the back, tightly."

"But they never caught him before he was shot," Mr. Palmer said.

"He wasn't arrested," Tony coughed. His voice hardened. "But maybe he was held prisoner." Tony coughed again.

Mr. Palmer, at Ducky's nod, edged back over with a bottle of water.

"Jimmy…" Tony said wearily.

"Come on, Tony. You were able to keep the water down before," Mr. Palmer coaxed.

"Any more water," Tony wheezed, "and I won't need an ambulance. I'll be able to float my way to the hospital." He sighed and tentatively took a sip.

"Any traces of explosives?" he asked after a few mouthfuls.

Ducky shook his head. "Nothing on his fingertips, his skin or his hair. There was no discoloring of the nail bed or of the pupils that I could tell."

"So no bomb," Mr. Palmer sighed.

"Maybe." Tony groaned as he adjusted in the chair. "What's with the countdown then? What's going to happen in—what? Ten minutes?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Ducky admitted.

* * * * *

Ten minutes.

No. _Nine_ minutes.

Tim tried to ignore the ticking in his mind, seconds falling away as he started the CMD window and typed in the command for the root directories. As the lines scrolled by, he could hear Gibbs talking to Agents Trinston and Marks by the doorway in hushed tones.

"Agent Marks has spoken with Ducky. No explosives were found on Albert," Ziva reported next to his ear.

Tim jerked. "G-great," he stammered. Geez, she must be taking Gibbs' lessons, or maybe it was a Mossad thing. "I think I can access the logs and see what Albert had Walters do."

"Can you get into the lockdown program?"

Tim swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth. "No," he murmured. His shoulders slumped. "I tried. The program is running some subroutine I can't crack. I—I'm in." Tim straightened in his chair.

Ziva pressed closer. "The lockdown?"

"No, the entry logs." Tim smiled grimly as he read the lines. "Lot number 488833D was accessed and transferred to hard drive F." He typed rapidly the number. "That lot belongs to—"

"Commander Ford's computer." Gibbs leaned closer to the monitor on Tim's opposite side."The Brinon evidence."

Tim nodded. "The encrypted data the Cyber unit was still trying to crack. Albert got Walters to transfer the entire drive into his." He held up the iPod case. "The drive hidden in this and after that was done—"

"The second shooter executed him," Gibbs finished.

Tim closed his eyes briefly. Poor Walters. "In all the chaos, no one would think to look at the archives. Everyone would be focused on the security protocols. Walters would have been the only one who would know where to look."

"And you," Gibbs rumbled. There was a brief sensation of a hand dropped on his shoulder.

Ziva smiled. But her mouth flattened as a shadow crossed over her face. "The second shooter has the hard drive now."

Tim nodded glumly. "Yeah. Whatever was on Commander Ford's computer, the only copy left is in that drive. The shooter still can't get out though. We're still under lock—"

The watch in Ziva's grasp beeped. Tim flinched.

All at once, the silence that was around them cracked open and everything around them flared into an eruption of light.

* * * * *

It didn't feel like a good thing when the lights came back on.

"Yes!" Palmer cheered as Autopsy suddenly brightened. He grinned over to Tony. "It's over."

Tony's red rimmed gaze narrowed. He said nothing.

"Mr. Palmer, let's prepare to move—"

"I don't think we should be leaving this area just yet," Tony interrupted. He clamped down on the cough that wanted to come out.

"Lockdown's over," Palmer pointed out.

Is it? Tony tightened his grip on his gun and stared at the door.

* * * * *

Tim's eyes watered. Ziva threw an arm up and shielded her eyes as every single light and computer in the room snapped on, as bright and as abrupt as a flash bang.

"I thought you couldn't get in," Gibbs grit out as he grimaced at the sudden glare. He didn't wait for Tim to reply. He reached over and punched in a speed dial on the phone by the computer.

 _"Vance."_ The director didn't sound thrilled the lights were back on. In fact, he sounded pissed.

"Lockdown's been aborted," Gibbs reported.

_"How?"_

"Unclear at this time, sir."

Tim cringed. He could feel Gibbs's stare on the top of his head.

_"The countdown you warned us about?"_

Tim leaned towards the phone. "Doesn't look like it was for a bomb."

Ziva grunted, not entirely convinced, "But we have sent the body down to be tested for explosive residue."

_"Fine. We are still proceeding with the evacuation. First response units from Hazmat are coming in to take out the priorities."_

Tim raised an eyebrow. "But there's no contagion."

_"They can't take the chance on a Level Four, Agent McGee. SOP during a Level Four is to move the critically injured first."_

At least it meant Tony would get help. Tim exchanged a look with Ziva.

_"Marks debriefed me on Albert and the second shooter. Have we located all the involved parties?"_

"Not yet, Director," Ziva spoke up.

"But we have determined this wasn't a terrorist attack, sir," Tim offered. "Looks like they were after the evidence on Ford's computer."

 _"Get the second shooter_." Vance was short. _"We have men covering the exits. He should still be in the building. Flush him out. Good work, Agent McGee."_

"But I-I didn't do anything." Tim turned back to the computers and frantically typed in commands. "Lockdown protocols deactivated by themselves." He stopped. "Maybe that's what the countdown was for?"

Tim caught the watch Ziva dropped in his hands. He squinted. He could barely read it under the smudged…

Tim held the watch back and considered it.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

Tim frowned. Something in the back of his head nagged at him. "I don't know." He rubbed his thumb over the watch face. "There's paint on this thing."

"So?" Ziva leaned over his shoulder for another look.

"Well…I mean…no, I just thought it was weird." McGee dangled the watch in front of him.

Ziva was reaching for the watch when Gibbs suddenly grabbed her by the wrist.

"Boss?" Tim stared. Gibbs wasn't known to be…well…touchy. Not that way, at least.

Gibbs gently turned Ziva's hand over to reveal stained fingertips. It was like Ziva had fingerprinted with white dye.

Ziva studied her own hand. "It came from the watch," she decided. She tilted her head. "The paint must have been fresh when I touched it."

Tim's eyes widen fractionally. "That paint couldn't have been there long or it would have dried alr…" He raised his hand and stared at it. He had finally washed his hands clean of Tony's blood, but there was still a stain. It had been there since this morning.

"Boss…" Tim could barely draw in a breath. "We wondered how Albert was able to hide from everyone—"

"He didn't have to," Gibbs growled. His eyes narrowed. "Call them." He twisted around, his gun out, already running as he shouted over his shoulder. "Get them on the phone!"

"Gibbs?" Ziva stared after him before she turned back to McGee. "Where is he going?" she demanded.

"The second shooter," Tim said as he frantically punched the extension. _Come on. Pick up_. "He knows where he's headed."

* * * * *

It was getting harder and harder to keep everything in focus.

The phone rang, drawing him out of his haze. Tony blearily tracked Ducky walking over to the phone, but as soon as he reached for it, the ringing stopped.

Ducky frowned but he picked up the receiver anyway. After a few seconds, he hung it up. Glancing over at Tony, he shrugged.

_Well, that wasn't ominous._

Tony felt a hand on his shoulder. He lifted a heavy head up to Palmer. Tony smiled wanly at him.

Before Tony could say anything to reassure the queasy-looking Palmer, the re-powered doors opened. A man dressed in an isolation suit stiffened at the sight of the gun Tony whipped up towards him.

 _"We were told to evacuate the injured_." The hesitation was audible even though it was muffled under the hood and breathing mask.

"That would be me," Tony wearily raised his free hand. At least he wasn't going to be a pincushion this time. He scowled when Palmer daintily took the gun from him and set it on the slab.

"Let's go, Tony." Ducky shuffled over. "We can use the gurney if the elevators are working again—"

_"I've been ordered to escort only him to the ambulance. I can't let you come with me. Quarantine procedures—"_

Ducky tutted as he motioned for Palmer to help him. "Nonsense. You will be advised there is no such need. I should accompany you. We've been treating Agent DiNozzo and we have information they will need at Bethesda."

Tony smirked tiredly. He stared at the figure in the crinkly suit. He blinked blearily at the blue jumpsuit with its white zippers. That red tie peeking through clashed horribly with the blue. Blue suit. Blue lights. He was starting to hate blue.

_"Sir, I'm to accompany Agent DiNozzo alone. You have not been cleared—"_

"We have isolation suits here, too," Palmer spoke up. He hurried to the locker by Ducky's desk. "Look, we can put them on real fast."

"Yes, yes," Ducky agreed, stepping away from the gurney. "We won't be a moment…"

Tony chuckled breathlessly. The poor guy didn't know who he was up against. The man stood there, bewildered—although it was hard to tell with that whole John Travolta bubble thing going on—his hands reaching into the emergency kit they all carry across their shoulders with their air masks, syringes, radio—

Red tie.

The scalpel was the closest thing he could reach. Tony grabbed it, the tray crashing to the floor as his arm knocked into it. He shouted to Ducky and Palmer to get down and threw it before the gun in the guy's hand even registered.

"Gun!" Tony hollered as loud as he could, but it was drowned out by the gunman's pained scream. Tony's entire back went rigid with pain as his stomach flexed; he threw himself to the side to grab the shooter's discarded weapon.

There was no way the man in the suit could hold onto the gun after Tony had buried the bloodied scalpel into his shoulder.

Vaguely, he heard Palmer shoving Ducky behind the farthest table. "Ducky ducking" was the strangest thing that popped in his head as he crashed onto the floor, gasping, reaching, reaching…

Whoever was in the suit recovered and lunged for the gun just as Tony got to it. Tony squirmed on his burning stomach, his legs completely useless as his fingertips brushed the gun.

The gun was kicked away from his grasp, a textbook move so familiar, Tony snarled with the realization of who the second shooter might be.

"D-don't move!" Palmer gasped. He'd managed to get Tony's gun from the table, but at the same time their opponent had reached his.

Tony could tell that, unlike Palmer, the other guy already had his target sighted.

"Jimmy, _get down_!" Tony rolled into the guy, knocking his aim off. The bullet went high. It shattered a light and half the morgue went dark.

Palmer's shot went into the lightboxes. The gunman's second bullet went wildly past Tony's ear. He heard Palmer's yelp behind him. Ducky shouted.

A kidney-shaped dish flew by Tony in response. Yet another bullet volleyed in return.

"Give me the gun!" Tony yelled to Palmer. He grunted as he dodged a kick aimed for his head. He was betting the isolation suit was awkward, putting them on equal footing. Sort of. He groaned as he swung his legs out, swept the other guy off his. Something hot trickled down his lower back. His entire shirt and the back of his pants clung to him. Winded, he could hear the gunman ripping off his hood in order to see better.

Tony could see Jimmy on the ground. Was he hit? He kicked the chair, crying out in pain as he did, sending it crashing into the gunman rising to his feet. But it barely fazed him; he was up, gun whipping around and Tony knew, like he had seen with Albert, there was no chance in hell he'd miss.

A gun fired.

Tony lay there, barely breathing, staring up at the gunman frozen in place, gun aimed for Tony's head.

Without a word, the gunman fell sideways, revealing Gibbs standing behind him, his weapon smoking from discharge, his eyes flat with fury.

Within a blink, that rage was gone and the iron-dark gaze eased into something more recognizable. Gibbs holstered his weapon, stepped over the body and dropped down on one knee next to Tony.

"You gotta…" Tony panted. "…gotta teach me that one, b-boss." Tony closed his eyes, pain whistling between his teeth when Gibbs pressed down on his stomach.

"That n-nick of time thing," Tony wheezed. "Could be usef—boss…" He moaned, his head falling back, his body twisting to get away from the source of white hot pain. Only Gibbs's hand cradled around the back of his head prevented him from smashing against the floor.

"Stop talking, DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered. He didn't look up as McGee came running in with… _Ziva_?

Okay, Ziva was going to have to teach him _that_ trick.

"Boss, are they—oh God," McGee moaned as he leaned against the door, his eyes glued to Tony. He swallowed convulsively. McGee was never much of a morgue kind of guy.

"Duc…Palm…"

"They're fine, DiNozzo. What did I tell you about talking?"

"Paramedics are on their way down," Palmer reported shakily as he skidded, slipping on the floor for some reason before he knelt by Tony's head.

Tony was relieved to see Ducky—albeit a fuzzy one—step into view.

"It's Gands," Ziva said, unsurprised when she rolled the body onto its back. "He's dead."

Tony couldn't see them but he heard their surprise when they spotted the scalpel still lodged in his shoulder.

"How'd you know?" Palmer asked as he pressed two fingers against Tony's neck.

"Zipper," Tony ground out. His legs kicked out weakly when— _God_ —Ducky placed what felt like all his weight on his bleeding shoulder. Tony could feel something hot and sticky spreading underneath him.

"If he was—Ducky, no, _stop_ …that worried about…about con…contag—" Tony squeezed his eyes shut. He hissed between clamped lips.

"Gands must have thought he was going to leave here disguised as a first responder," McGee babbled. "They would have let him walk right out the front door. SOP to get Tony to a hospital."

"I doubt he would have really taken Tony to one," Ziva said brusquely.

Tony was going to agree, but he ended up garbling out something unintelligible because someone wouldn't stop _hurting_ him. "S-stop…"

"Ride it out, Tony," Gibbs murmured. "Breathe."

Tony sucked in a shuddering breath. And another. It didn't help. "Didn't zip all the way…" He shook his head wearily. Maybe he'll tell them later.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McGee and Ziva consider Gands on the floor. "Also a mean clogger, huh, Tony?" McGee joked unsteadily as he came closer.

"If I had a clog," Tony gasped, "would have…thrown that, too." He wished everyone would stop hovering around him, looking down because things were spinning and he felt like he was falling…

"Where the hell are they?"

Oh, man, Gibbs sounded _pissed_. Tony fumbled for something, caught the stiff strap of Gibbs's watch and latched on. He saw Gibbs's eyes widen a little, his mouth move, but there was a roaring in Tony's ears that suddenly crested, the darkness took over and he let go of the watch.

* * * * *

He was being attacked by SpongeBob.

Tony cracked gritty eyes open and warily studied the pair of yellow, manically grinning floating heads bobbing at the foot of his bed. He grimaced and was caught off guard how much it hurt to make his face twist.

A chair by his head scrapped painfully by his ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Tony couldn't turn his stiff neck to look, but he could feel himself relaxing when he felt a heavy presence settling on his forearm.

"About time, DiNozzo."

Tony smacked his lips and tried to open his eyes wider. He made a sound when he felt rather than saw the spoonful of ice chips tapping his lower lip.

"Slowly," Gibbs advised. He watched Tony weakly chew on the ice before offering some more.

"You're in Recovery," Gibbs guessed when Tony opened his mouth but nothing would come out. "Six hours. That's a record for you. Half of Bethesda operated on you."

Tony wanted to say something about how he was a popular guy. He wanted to ask if any of the cute nurses left him their numbers. He wanted to say something witty.

Instead, he coughed.

It was unnerving to hear but not see Gibbs, but the thought of moving his head, his _eyeballs_ , didn't connect with the actual muscles to do the job.

"'ood drugs," Tony slurred.

"Yeah, DiNozzo. Looks like it."

Tony wasn't sure what was so funny, but hearing a mildly amused Jethro Gibbs was better than an "I am _not_ amused" Jethro Gibbs, because the latter meant shooting, running and ultimately bleeding for someone.

Warmth vaguely went up and down his arm.

"Ev…body?" Tony struggled to ask.

"Everyone's fine. Ziva's arm needed a few stitches. Abby slammed down three Caf-Pows as soon as she got out of her lab. She's waiting outside, finishing her fourth."

"Uh oh," Tony breathed.

Gibbs grunted. "Yeah."

Tony stared at the hazy bright lights above him. He could hear the soft, rhythmic beeps around him. He hoped that meant good news.

"Get some rest," Gibbs whispered gruffly. "Everyone's okay."

"A…Al…" Tony wrinkled his brow.

"We got him," Gibbs growled. Wow, he was still pissed for some reason.

There was something else. Tony forced his eyes to stay open but that weight on his arm was lulling him deeper.

"'andcuffs," Tony mumbled.

"What?"

Ducky. Ask Ducky. Gibbs needed to ask Ducky. Tony frowned, his throat working, his voice failing.

"Okay. Calm down. I'll ask Ducky."

Tony nodded—at least he thought he did—and blinked heavy lidded at the shadow leaning over.

"See?" Tony slurred. "Didn't…didn't die."

There was a sharp intake of breath before there was a painful squeeze around his wrist.

"Yeah…Good job, Tony."

Tony smiled as his eyes slid shut. "'anks, boss." Tony felt Gibbs get up to speak to someone but found he was too tired to care and just let his eyes slide all the way shut.


	7. Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's SOP (Standard Operating Procedure), except there was nothing _standard_ about being shot, trapped and possibly hunted down within NCIS. Being locked in also means you can't get out.

SpongeBob wouldn't leave him alone.

Tony nodded as Abby went on, narrating with her hands, pigtails and words. He was trying to ignore the balloons still tied to the foot of his bed, but damn it, they multiplied into six. That gift shop downstairs seriously needed to rethink their offerings.

"…so they're going to fly in Albert's sister on a special visa to take care of Ornella." Abby paused long enough to drain her Caf-Pow dry. That was her second one in the past hour. Wow, overcompensating much?

"Gathering everyone's voice samples. Shooting you. The explosives. He was forced to do what they said to save his sister." Abby sighed. "I thought Gibbs was going to shoot Brinon when Ziva and McGee got the little girl out of that basement. Poor Al…" She blinked rapidly as she idly smoothed down his covers. She peered through her lashes at him.

"Yeah," Tony murmured, "poor Albert." The guilt he saw on her face faded. He fidgeted. He wondered if the heaviness binding around his shoulder and lower back would ever go away. Getting shot was not fun. Root canal was a barrel of laughs compared to this.

"I wonder how long Gands was on Brinon's payroll?" Abby mused.

"Long enough." McGee made a face as he entered Tony's room. He set a paper bag down on Tony's pullout table, next to the grayest hunk of meatloaf Tony had ever seen (and fully intended to ignore).

McGee smiled wearily; he still looked exhausted. The circles Tony had noted each day McGee swung by were darker. "Gands kept records of everything. Even how he manipulated the phones to call in the lockdown." McGee pulled a pretty good imitation of a Gibbs frown. "That was a security flaw no one figured on. He even made sure he was guarding the one exit Albert could escape through."

"He killed Hanks because he got close enough too Albert when everything happened," Tony concluded. He carefully prodded the dressing on his lower stomach. "It was all Gands' idea not Albert."

McGee nodded. "If it hadn't been for Gands' plan to steal back the evidence, we never would have known to look closer at the data to find enough to convict Brinon. So in the end, it all worked out."

"Speak for yourself." Tony grimaced. He rubbed gingerly at his sternum. It weirdly ached even though it was nowhere near the healing wound. He waggled his eyebrows and pointed to the bag. "Present?"

"Half a mocha chip muffin," McGee corrected him. He grinned and pushed it closer. "Bon appétit."

Tony pretended to lean back into his pillows in horror. "That's not from last week, is it?"

McGee rolled his eyes, but failed to completely hide the relief on his face.

Guess it had been kind of scary for everybody when Tony's fever had spiked and his memory had spiraled downward with it. At some point he thought he'd even seen Brad Pitt—the doctor, not the actor—but Tony wasn't sure if that had been delirium, flashback, or real.

"So how was the grand jury?" Tony asked.

McGee's grin turned wolfish. "Brinon's trial is next month."

Tony's shoulders relaxed. "Great." He dropped his head back into the pillows. He took measured breaths. His eyes narrowed when he saw SpongeBob floating into the room with Ziva and Palmer.

Palmer grinned when he saw Tony was awake, but his smile dimmed when he saw SpongeBob's twins tethered to the foot of Tony's bed. Palmer's ears pinked.

"Seriously," Tony grumbled half-heartedly, "you couldn't shop anywhere else besides the gift shop downstairs, Jimmy?"

Palmer chuckled nervously.

"I brought you a cappuccino instead," Ziva spoke up as she smiled smugly.

"I don't think Tony can have that yet, Ziva." McPartyPooper frowned.

"Oh no," Palmer hastened to say, "Dr. Mallard and Gibbs are talking with the doctors right now. They said any liquids are fine now."

"Great," Tony groaned. "Ducky's going to find out about the screw-up with the meds…" Stupid doctors didn't read up on his allergies. Isn't that what charts were for?

"Ooh, Ducky smackdown!" Abby perked up. She planted a kiss on Tony's forehead then rubbed the lipstick mark off with her thumb. "I'll be right back. I got to see this. When Ducky gets going with that accent of his…" She hooked Palmer by the elbow on her way out.

"I'll see you later, Tony!" Palmer yelped as he was dragged away.

"Send me video!" Tony whined as they hurried off.

"How you're feeling, Tony?" McGee asked as he gingerly sat on the edge of his bed.

Ziva frowned at the balloons.

Tony was tempted to ask her to channel her Mossad powers and pop them. "Good," Tony replied instead. He knew better than to claim he was fine because it would get back to Gibbs. He didn't want to get handcuffed to his bed again for suggesting he was fine enough to go home. Vance had _not_ been happy to get that call from hospital security.

McGee rubbed the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. "Tony, I uh…" He dropped his gaze. "When Al had shot you, I…I'm sorry I didn't react faster."

Tony's brow knitted. "How much faster do you think you could have been?" He pointed to Ziva. "I don't think even _she_ could have been faster. Or Gibbs."

"He's right, McGee," Ziva said, although she did look mildly disturbed at the implication she wasn't Superman-fast. "There was nothing you could have done."

"And from what I was told," Tony added, "you reacted pretty fast when you thought there was a grenade." McGee stammered, his face turning red, the gloom that clung to him faded. Better.

Tony smirked. "Very John McClane." It would be funny to see how McGee reacted when he's presented with his citation next month.

McGee smiled goofily. "Glad you're okay, Tony."

"Yes," Ziva agreed fervently.

"Hey, _I'm_ glad I'm okay." Tony sobered. "Also glad Gibbs got Albert's kid sister away from Brinon."

McGee shook his head. "Brinon was never worried about the murder charge."

"Considering what we finally decoded in Gands' hard drive," Ziva continued, "murder was the _least_ of his worries."

"Yeah, well, selling weapons to terrorist groups kind of trumps murder," Gibbs drawled as he entered. He studied Tony. Satisfied with whatever he saw, Gibbs settled into the seat that had been left vacant for him.

"Where's Ducky?" McGee craned his neck to check out the hallway.

"Still ripping Doctor Moron a new one," Gibbs said calmly. "I left because Abby said I was blocking her view."

Tony groaned. "You know, I'm stuck in here for another week. Ticking off my doctor might work against me here."

Gibbs nodded. "I'll be sure to remind Doctor Pitt when he gets here in a few minutes."

" _What?!_ "

McGee shared a grin with Ziva. "Boss, Ziva and I are going to…uh…make sure Ducky doesn't get thrown out of the hospital."

"Don't ruin Abby's shot," Gibbs said. He nodded to them as they left.

Tony eyed the doorway. "You know, I don't think I had to worry about Ducky back in the morgue. I think Ducky can be a pretty scary guy if he wants to be."

"Yup." Gibbs smirked to himself. "Ask him about Manila some day." He paused. "And about the exploding monkey and the boat he stole."

Tony gaped. "I think I will," he choked out. He rolled his head carefully and laid on the pillows, listening to Gibbs drinking his coffee. It wasn't worth trying to tell Gibbs to go home. He'd worked with the former Marine long enough to know it was useless. Gibbs wasn't going anywhere. Sure, he drank umbrella drinks for a brief time in Mexico, but other than that, Gibbs stayed whether he was asked to or not.

Tony was okay with that.

"Albert could have killed me, boss." Damn it. That wasn't what Tony meant to say. He hadn't wanted to say it for days; didn't even want to _think_ about it.

"Yep." Luckily, Gibbs didn't fancy himself an armchair shrink.

Tony blinked hard; the lump in his throat was a surprise to him. "I mean, I'd been a cop for…I never saw it coming."

"I think that was the point of blackmailing Albert." Gibbs set his cup down. "None of us saw it coming. None of us predicted Brinon would grab a nine-year-old girl to get her big brother to go on a suicide mission."

"You think Albert knew…" Tony asked, his throat tight. "Think he knew it was a suicide mission?"

"Think Albert couldn't risk caring."

Tony nodded numbly. He squinted, his eyes burning at the corners.

"Brinon better pay for this." Tony grimaced. It sounded whiny. "I mean, for Al—"

A hand dropped on top of his head. "He will," Gibbs promised, his voice sure, solid and steady.

Tony found himself calming. Still, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He wondered if maybe he should finally give in and ask for a sleeping aid tonight. He didn't want to keep seeing Albert's gun firing at his face; not when he knew the truth behind the attack.

"Man," Tony said thickly, "I can't wait to go home."

Gibbs grunted. "About that…"

A sneaky suspicion wiggled inside. "Boss?" He stared at Gibbs with growing dismay. "Look, I appreciate your concern. I get it. I do. But I got two weeks of sick leave when I get discharged and no offense, but two weeks at your place, begging your rabbit ears to at least give me public television is going to give me a relapse—"

"Did I say you were staying at my place, DiNozzo?"

Oh. Tony was relieved. Really, he was. "Oh…okay."

"My guest room is on the second floor," Gibbs went on, stiffly. "You're not okayed to be handling stairs."

Tony gulped. "You mean…"

"That sofabed of yours better be comfortable," Gibbs growled.

Tony laughed, strained. "It's new?" he offered. "Listen, boss, you don't have to—"

A light slap bobbed his head forward. Tony scoffed and smiled up at Gibbs.

Gibbs sat there, looking steadily back at him. After a moment, his mouth curved crookedly. "You're welcome."

Tony cleared his throat and thought reaching for his coffee would spare them both all the warm and fuzzy things Gibbs could never say and Tony could never hear. He sighed happily, ignoring Gibbs's chuckle as he curled his hands around the still warm cardboard cup. God, he was sick and tired of lukewarm water and—

Spewed the coffee out after the first gulp.

"Aw man, she put _salt_ in my coffee!"

 

  
**| the end |**   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing a fic is never a one man production. A Big Bang story, I have learned, takes a village. I may write the fic but the artists and the betas make the story happen.
> 
> Many thanks to [info]brate7 and [info]penfold_x for the beta! I know my constant 'tweaking' couldn't have been fun. You were firm with your red pens and patient through my email's version of hand wringing. Thank you for being there for me!
> 
> To [info]ms_ellery, whose beautiful artwork graced this fic, my gratitude for such incredible work! It stuns and amazes me how you were able to visualize what was on paper and flesh out such startling and vivid images!
> 
> And to [info]krazykipper and the comm [info]ncis_bigbang for once again doing this. Gathering of writers, artists, deadlines into a cohesive community chocked filled with fic is a wonderful gift to the fandom. Thank you for doing this!
> 
> And thank you readers, for being here!

**Author's Note:**

> Writing a fic is never a one man production. A Big Bang story, I have learned, takes a village. I may write the fic but the artists and the betas make the story happen.
> 
> Many thanks to brate7 and penfold_x for the beta! I know my constant 'tweaking' couldn't have been fun. You were firm with your red pens and patient through my email's version of hand wringing. Thank you for being there for me!
> 
> To ms_ellery, whose beautiful artwork graced this fic, my gratitude for such incredible work! It stuns and amazes me how you were able to visualize what was on paper and flesh out such startling and vivid images!
> 
> And to krazykipper and the ncis_bigbang community for once again doing this. Gathering of writers, artists, deadlines into a cohesive community chocked filled with fic is a wonderful gift to the fandom. Thank you for doing this!
> 
> And thank you readers, for being here!


End file.
